


Nuestra Iglesia

by PengyChan



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Bad Matchmaking, F/M, Gen, Humor, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 82,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows forweddingvows before it's too late. He's not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest.Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get.It's either the best idea he's ever had, or the worst.





	1. Padre Ernesto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Senora_Luna and I had this idea a while back and of course I couldn’t resist writing it. This is gonna be a lot more light-hearted than my usual stuff. Most of the time. Can’t promise regular updates, but will do my best!  
> Art below is by Senora_Luna.
> 
> (This first chapter is... a bit grim. But it will be mostly humor, I promise!)

****

**Mexico, March 1914**

Ernesto smelled the bodies before he saw them, hanging from the highest branches of a half-dried tree, swaying just barely despite the complete lack of wind.

They probably hadn’t been there for too long, but their corpses were already swelling in the heat, and carrion birds were having a go at their faces. He would have very happily avoided approaching at all, but it was the only tree as far as eye could see, hanging men or not; both him and Dante needed shade and rest, and to eat something.

His horse was beginning to falter, and it was a bad sign: if he died on him now, he’d be screwed. He wouldn’t be able to get very far on foot, not in that heat. They’d rest, he’d have the last of his salt beef, and Dante would make do by grazing at the shrubs.

“Come on, amigo. We’re almost there,” Ernesto said, not really knowing where _there_ even was other than ‘anywhere but here’, and led his horse towards the tree. The bodies hanging from it had belonged to army men; they wore the same uniform Ernesto had worn until a few days earlier, when his thoughts on the mess those past few years had been had condensed into one big ‘fuck it all’. 

He was twenty-five, had been drafted into the army the previous year, and he’d _had it_ with all of it. Huerta could burn in hell; he’d only ever wanted to hold a guitar, to play and sing before crowds - not to hold a rifle and fight someone else’s damn war.

So he’d shot the man he’d been sent out on patrol with in the back--  
_we drank together, laughed and joked called each other_ amigo, _but killing him was so easy_ _  
_ \--before tearing the army jacket off himself and turning his horse down south, galloping away as though he had the devil at his heels. In a way, he did; as a deserter, he now had _plenty_ of devils after him. He needed to find someplace safe to hide until that nonsense was over with.

… And speaking of nonsense, there was a third body beneath that tree - not hanging, but tied to its trunk and entirely motionless. The man’s head was tilted against the tree, skin and balding head burned by the sun, eyes shut and mouth slightly agape. He wore civilian clothing, but there was no mistaking the white collar on his neck - a priest.

Not too surprising, really. There were people in both factions who were fed up with the Catholic church, and amidst violence no bystander was safe. Ernesto wasn’t fond on priests himself, truth be told, but he sort of drew a line at tying them up to a tree and leaving them to die slowly. He hoped the poor bastard hadn’t taken too long to--

A groan caused Ernesto to recoil, and Dante to rear back. Under Ernesto’s gaze, the priest turned his head to look at him with clouded eyes. “Agua,” he rasped. “Por favor.”

Oh, Christ, he was still alive. Ernesto tied Dante to a low branch and, avoiding to step beneath the corpses, quickly went to the priest. He absently noted, a little distance away, a suitcase discarded on the ground, the prints of a donkey and tracks of wheels. The revolutionaries had hung the soldiers, tied up the priest, and left with the cart he must have been riding on, discarding whatever they didn’t need to take.

“It’s all right, Padre,” Ernesto said, knowing full well nothing was all right. He could tell the man wasn’t going to survive and, either way, Dante couldn’t carry them both; he wouldhave to leave him there. Maybe ending him there and then would be the kindest thing to do, but even so he found himself reaching for his knife to cut down the ropes first; the man slumped forward and Ernesto caught him, leaning him down across the ground in a shaded spot.

“Not you lucky day, was it, Padre?”

The priest looked up at him, saying nothing, licking blistered lips with a dry tongue. Ernesto took the water flask from his belt, lifted the man’s head with a hand, and put the flask to his lips. He’d expected him to drink greedily and had been prepared to pull back the flask - had to save water - but the man only took a few gulps before turning his head to look up at him.

“God bless you, son,” he rasped.

“Gracias. Could use a blessing,” Ernesto muttered, putting the flask away, and looked up towards the hanging corpses. “What happened here?”

“I was… I was travelling. Santa Cecilia. Their parish priest… Padre Edmundo died. I was sent to replace him, and… and I came across....” he swallowed, and his eyes turned to the bodies hanging above them. His features twisted in anguish. “I only asked to be allowed… to give them the last rites, before… everyone should have… the last rites…”

What a stupid, stupid, _stupid_ idea. Years of fighting had made men bloodthirsty, and standing between them and enemies to hang was asking for trouble. Revolutionaries had done this, but Ernesto knew plenty of army men would have done the same. He had seen a church being burned to the ground over the rumor that a priest aided rebels. “It was a bad call, Padre.”

“It was my… my duty.”

_And you’re dying for it,_ Ernesto thought, but didn’t say as much. “How far is Santa Cecilia?” he asked instead. “My horse cannot carry us both, but if it’s close enough to find help--”

“No, son. It is… it is south from here, a two days’ ride,” the man managed, and Ernesto nodded grimly. That meant that he wouldn’t be able to get him help before four days at the earliest, and there was no chance he could hold on that long. He could perhaps find help sooner if he rode back the way he’d come, but it was far too dangerous.

He could never go back; forward was the only way. He needed someplace to hide... and Santa Cecilia’s parish was expecting a new priest. Ernesto’s gaze turned to the open suitcase on the ground, and to the black cassock and white collar he could see hanging out of it. The cassock should be about his size; maybe just a bit too large, but it’d do.

“I don’t think I can help you, Padre,” Ernesto said slowly, causing the man to shake his head.

“You can. You have a gun.”

So, that was how it had to be. It would be an act of mercy, he supposed: a quick death as opposed to letting him die slowly in the heat, with the smell of rotting flesh in his nostrils and carrion birds circling him. He was doomed either way, so may as well take the least painful route. If there _was_ a god anywhere, he’d understand. Ernesto nodded, and took out his gun.

“Do you have any last words, or…?” he asked, his voice not as firm as he’d have liked. He’d shot so many people, and from close range as well; he’d ended more wounded men than he wished to recall, but it didn’t mean he _liked_ it. Plenty of men had acquired a taste for blood those years; Ernesto de la Cruz was not among them. He was just trying to live through it, to see better days when he could leave behind rifles and gunpowder for his guitar, and music.

It was all he wanted, and he’d do whatever it took to survive until then.

The priest smiled weakly. “Let me say my last prayer,” he whispered, and shut his eyes. “Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos… santificado sea tu nombre. Venga... tu reino….”

Ernesto cocked his gun, his mouth dry, trying not to think what would become of his body once he left, leaving it easy prey of carrion birds and coyotes. He had no tools to bury him, the earth was too dry and parched to dig with his hands, and he needed to save strength. He’d let himself and Dante rest until dusk, and then set off to the south.

“Tuyos son el reino... el poder y la gloria... por los siglos de los siglos,” the priest choked out, and let out a long breath, screwing his eyes shut. “Amén,” he whispered, nodding slightly, and it was the last thing he’d ever say.

A shot rang out, and that was it. The birds that had been pecking at the hanging men’s eyes flew away, but not very far; they would come back to their feast as soon as Ernesto left.

Scavengers always came back.

* * *

“Héctor? Do you think the new priest is going to be nice?”

“I’m sure he will be, chamaco.”

“I still think you should be our new priest.”

Héctor chuckled, leaning more comfortably against the tree and strumming his guitar softly. “I’m a novice, Miguel. Still a few months to go before I can take the vows.”

Sitting cross-legged across him, Miguel shrugged. He was holding a guitar he’d borrowed from Chicharrón, the old gravedigger. A whole lot of grumbling had ensued, but he could never refuse Miguel anything in the end… like he could never say no to Héctor when he was his age and would sneak out of the orphanage to visit, begging him to teach him how to play.

Old Cheech was grumpy, but he’d always had a soft spot for scrappy, music-loving orphans.

“But you said mass and everything!” Miguel was saying, copying the movement of Héctor’s fingers on the strings. Héctor suspected he’d taken on the role of altar boy mostly to spend time with him, and he had no complaints. He liked the kid. “And you were really good.”

“Gracias,” Héctor laughed. “But I only said mass because there was no other option. Padre Edmundo’s… our new parish priest will be here soon,” Héctor pointed out, keeping himself from using the word ‘replacement’, and trying to ignore a pang of pain in his chest.

The elderly priest’s demise had been sudden, but not unexpected; he’d been getting on with the years. Still, his loss had stung; he’d been almost a father to Héctor, a gentle and patient guide. He could only hope to be the same to Miguel, now, even if he wasn’t much older than him. He’d been only twelve when the chamaco had been found swaddled in a box on the church’s steps nine years earlier, with a note reading only his name.

“How soon?”

“One of these days, chamaco.”

“Do you think he’ll still let me be the altar boy?”

“I can’t see why not.”

“True. I’m good at it, aren’t I?”

“Sure you are.”

“And Imelda is so beautiful.”

“Of course she i-- _wha--_ Miguel!”

Miguel threw up his arms with a grito of triumph. “You said it! I heard you! No take-backs!”

“That is-- I didn’t--” Héctor sputtered, knowing full well his ears were probably turning crimson at that point. And his entire face, too. He could never hide embarrassment well.

“You always look at her when she sings with the choir,” Miguel pointed out, sounding far too satisfied with himself. “I’ve been watching. It’s like you’re playing the organ just for her.”

“I do not-- that was _inappropriate!_ She’s going to take the vows next year and so am I!”

The boy grinned. “But you haven’t yet! If you change your mind--”

“Miguel,” Héctor said, warningly, but of course he was ignored like every single time he tried and failed to sound stern. To be fair, his voice cracking didn’t really help.

“No, really! And she looked at you last Sunday, too! You can always ask, right? If she says--”

_“Miguel,”_ Héctor repeated, and this time his voice stayed firm enough to make the boy trail off and, if his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, actually look a smidge guilty. “She has a beautiful voice and I am happy when she sings in the choir, that is _all._ She’s about to take the veil, I am about to take my vows, and it is what we both _want._ End of discussion. Claro?”

“Claro,” Miguel mumbled, sounding suitably chastised, and Héctor turned his attention back to the music - doing his utmost not to think of Imelda’s voice, of the tilt of her chin and the stride of her step, and entirely missing the skeptical look Miguel was giving him.

* * *

“Oh, look at that. Your secret admirer. And I use the term _secret_ loosely.”

Walking down the street with the basket of groceries at her hip, Imelda needed every ounce of her willpower not to roll her eyes. It wouldn’t be respectful, by all accounts, for a novice to roll her eyes at a full-fledged bride of Christ.

If only Sister Sofía didn’t keep making it so damn _difficult._

“It is such a baseless rumor, I am surprised you give it any credit at all,” she said, pointedly avoiding to look towards the plaza where novice Héctor was talking with a group of children, and laughing with them. He was good with children; he would make a good priest, one day.

“Oh, please. You know me,” Sister Sofía quipped. “You’re not surprised at all.”

“There was never any inappropriate behaviour from either of us.”

“I am aware. Sadly.”

_“Sofía.”_

“There should be a ‘sister’ somewhere in there.”

Imelda sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why you even took the veil.”

“Same as you - didn’t fancy the idea of marriage and _suddenly_ got the calling when my parents began to look around on my behalf. Funny, how timing works,” she said, and shrugged. “The choice is limited, let’s be honest. Novice Héctor, though…”

“He’s going to be a priest soon. It’s what he’s wanted since he was a boy.”

“Or just what he’s been told over and over he should do with his life by our sisters at the orphanage. You end up believing everything if it’s repeated to you often enough. For example, Sister Antonia keeps insisting that it doesn’t count if it’s with another woman.”

That got a chuckle out of Imelda, almost against her own will. She opened her mouth to retort, but before she should two voices reached her at the same time, almost identical and yet so, so easy for her to tell apart.

“Oye, Imelda!”

“Hermana!”

“Have you seen Miguel?” Her brothers, tall for their thirteen years and with identical pairs of spectacles, skidded to a halt a few steps from them, talking fast.

“We were building him a guitar all of his own!”

“A custom guitar!”

“But we need to take a few measures!”

“He’s not with Héctor, he’s not at the church…”

“They won’t let us into the orphanage or even tell us if he’s in.”

“Nuns are no fun,” Felipe huffed.

“No offense,” Óscar added, getting a roll of the eyes from Imelda and a laugh out of Sofía.

“Oh, nuns can be more fun than you can imagine,” she said with a serene smile, entirely ignoring Imelda’s elbow against her side. Sofía’s mouth would get her in trouble someday. One way or another. “He could he be at the cemetery with Chicharrón.”

That caused both boys to make a face. “Old Cheech chased us out last time,” Óscar said.

“With a stick,” Felipe echoed.

“But if we plan out the route…”

“... And if we’re fast…”

“... After all, he has a peg leg…”

“Right, let’s do this!”

“See you later, hermana!” Óscar called out, and with that they were off to the cemetery, looking for Miguel.

* * *

Last night’s storm had had turned the stream into a proper river, or so it seemed to Miguel.

It was sunny now, not a cloud in the sky - the storm had been sudden and quick throwing down bucketfuls of water in a short time - and the sun beat down on his head as he hopped from rock to rock across the fast-flowing water, trying to imagine he was crossing Río Bravo, or Culiacán.

One day he might, but he had to wait for the Revolution to end. Santa Cecilia had been spared the worst of it, but things got really bad in other places; Miguel knew it because from time to time a new kid would arrive at the orphanage from out of town, and a lot of them had lost their parents because of it. A few months ago soldiers had come there, too, taken some men for the leva, and left; Miguel still remembered how the nuns had hidden away all the orphans who’d be considered old enough to hold a gun and fight.

Miguel had feared for Héctor, who’d been away at the seminary at the time, and seeing him coming back shortly afterwards had been a relief. Nothing had happened there since; Santa Cecilia was as safe as it could get. A bit _too_ safe, sometimes. Boring. Hardly anything ever--

“Hola, niño. Is this the way to Santa Cecilia?”

A voice he didn’t know rang out suddenly, snapping him from his thoughts just as he jumped from one rock to the other. He turned, startled, and he turned too quickly: his bare foot slipped off the wet rock, the world seemed to tilt, and the next instant he was underwater.

For a moment she felt nothing but surprise, then annoyance. He hadn’t slipped like that since he was a little kid; if any of his friends were here, they’d be laughing their butts off. Miguel tried to kick himself back up to the surface… only to realize that the the stream there was a _lot_ deeper than usual, and he couldn't reach the bottom. The current was much stronger, too, making him spin, and he no longer knew which way was up and which way was down, he couldn’t tell and he needed to _breathe_ and--

_No, no, no, no, no! Help me! Héctor! Someone!_

Trying to keep panic at bay, Miguel flailed with his arms and tried to grab on something - a rock, a root, anything - and met nothing but water. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he tried to kick the bottom of the torrent to push himself upward - but one of his feet barely touched a rock and immediately slipped off it, and the movement only made him sink even deeper.

Miguel opened his mouth to cry out and suddenly water was in his mouth, in his nose, down his throat. His chest seized, his vision darkened, and panic flooded him.

_No this can’t be it cannot be it’s little more than a trickle I can’t be drowning here I can’t--_

Something grasped the back of his shirt, and there was a pull. Next thing he knew, sunlight was back on his face and there was earth beneath his knees, someone was patting his back and water was cascading out of his mouth. Miguel coughed, drew in a convulsive breath, and coughed some more. He was cold, nose and throat burning, but he was _alive._

“Rayos, I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right, niño?”

Still coughing, Miguel nodded and looked up, blinking water out of his eyes. The man who had pulled him out was young, maybe his his twenties, wearing soaking wet black shirt and trousers… and a white collar. Miguel coughed again before speaking. “Sí, gracias. I... Are you… are you our new priest?” he asked, taken aback. He’d been expecting another old man, like Padre Edmundo. That guy was barely older than Héctor.

The man’s worried look melted into a smile, a flash of white in his black beard, and Miguel couldn’t help smiling back. “In the flesh,” he said with a laugh, and stood, helping him up. Miguel half-expected him to praise God for the fact he was all right, but he did not. “I’m Er-- Padre Ernesto. And you are…?”

“Miguel,” he replied, standing a bit shakily. “I’m the altar boy at the church. I, uh… I wasn’t supposed to play here all on my own,” he muttered, and gave his best smile. “Can you not tell the sisters I was here? And Héctor especially. He’s the novice at the parish. He’d get really worried. Like he _didn’t_ sneak off here when he was my age, too.”

He half-expected a scolding - Padre Edmundo would have berated him, if mildly, telling him that lying was a sin against God and that omission _does_ count as lying - but, instead, Padre Ernesto grinned back. “Won’t tell if you don’t,” he said, winking. “But then I think we should wait to dry up before we head to town. I don’t think telling them that a cloud rained on us and on us only would work. Believe me, I tried that once. My mamá didn’t buy it.”

All right, so he wasn’t like Padre Edmundo at all - and he wasn’t even telling him not to do it again or anything like that. Miguel already liked him, and he was sure Héctor would too.

“Oh, I’ll get dry fast,” he said, wringing a bit of his shirt in is hand and getting a small rivulet of water out of it. “It’s going to be hot today. But your clothes could take a bit longer.”

“Not a problem. I’ll tell them I rode across the stream before I met you.”

“You rode-- oh, is _that_ your horse?” Miguel exclaimed when he spotted a movement on their left. It was a beautiful animal, its coat such a light gray it was almost white, and it was drinking from the stream in steady gulps.

“This is Dante. We’ve been through a few things together,” Padre Ernesto said, giving an affectional pat to the animal’s side.

Miguel grinned before trying to find out how far he could push his luck. “Can I ride him?”

“That sounds like something I’d need your parents’ permission for.”

“I don’t have any parents,” Miguel pointed out, and Padre Ernesto’s expression sombered for a moment before he shrugged.

“... Ah, no permission required then. Never cared to ask for it, either,” he said, and swung up on the saddle - it was such a graceful movement, nothing like Padre Edmundo climbing on his old donkey - before holding a hand out to Miguel. “Care to guide me to the parish, then?”

Miguel grinned, and held back a grito of victory as he grabbed that hand and climbed on the horse. He held tightly on the mane, but with Padre Ernesto’s arms on either side of him, he already knew he wouldn’t fall off. “It’s that way, there is a bridge just half a mile down this path,” he said. “Once you cross it, you just go straight on. It’s not far.”

“Oh, good. Dante and I could use some rest,” Padre Ernesto muttered, guiding the horse down the path. He let go of the reins with one hand, and looking up Miguel could see he was rubbing at the thick black beard that covered his cheeks. “I could use a shave, too.”

“How long have you been travelling?”

“A while, niño. A while. I met… a few problems on the way,” Padre Ernesto said, his voice sounding far away, and Miguel could guess they had something to do with the Revolution.

“You’re from Oaxaca, right? Héctor said you’d be sent from la arquidiócesis de Antequera.”

“Huh? Oh yes. Of course.”

“What is la Nuestra Señora de la Asunción like?”

“The-- oh. Right. It’s. Nice. I guess.”

“Have you ever said mass there?”

“Not personally. But tell me about Santa Cecilia,” Padre Ernesto added quickly. “I seems like a quiet place,” he added, and Miguel shrugged.

“It is. Sometimes _too_ quiet. A bit boring,” he said, not noticing the smile on the man’s face.

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Padre Ernesto said. “I could use some boredom for a while.”

Later on, they would both think back about those words and laugh themselves into hysteria.


	2. Santa Cecilia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things Ernesto can do: charm people.  
> Things Ernesto cannot do: say mass in Latin.  
> But hey seize your moment, who needs a _plan_ when you go charisma, am I right.

Chicharrón had been Santa Cecilia’s gravedigger for as long as Héctor could remember.

He seemed to have hardly aged since the days when Héctor had been just a little boy running wild in the streets along with other orphans, but not because he’d aged well: it was more that he’d  _ always _ looked old, and a decade or two made hardly any difference. He was perpetually in a bad mood, always scowling unless he was well in his cups, telling somebody how he’d lost his leg – and slamming his wooden leg on the closest table for emphasis – or playing his guitar.

It had been the guitar that had first lured Héctor to the old hut he lived in. Like most children, he’d been scared of him; getting close to him before darting off had been a common game to prove their courage. But one evening, when Héctor had been hanging in the cemetery to avoid an older kid who’d promised to rough him up - Héctor had really wished he had an older, bigger friend to help him out at times like that - there had been music.

Later on he wouldn’t quite remember the words, but the sound alone, and the melancholy in Cheech’s voice, had drawn him closer. Playing with his eyes shut, Chicharrón hadn’t noticed he was there at all until he’d stepped over a freshly-dug grave – for el señor Delgado to be buried in the next day, Cheech had explained later – and fallen in it with a cry. The music had stopped, and Héctor had climbed out to see Cheech glaring down at him, a stick in his hand.

“Well, look at that. It lives. And you don’t belong here if you’re alive, muchacho,” the gravedigger had scoffed, and lifted the stick. “Now get out of here, before I change that and bury you--”

“Can you do that again?” Héctor had blurted out, catching the man by surprise. He’d blinked down at him, clearly confused.

“What?”

“Play the guitar,” Héctor had said, brushing some dirt off his clothes, still looking up at Cheech in stunned fascination. “It was good.”

That had definitely caught old Chicharrón by surprise. “Are you pulling my leg now?” he’d asked, and Héctor’s eyes had shifted to the man’s wooden leg. Cheech had followed his gaze and, suddenly, laughed. Coming from him, it felt almost as alien as singing. “Hah! You know what I mean. Are you mocking me, kid? Because if you are--”

“I want to hear that song again!” Héctor had insisted, and grinned up at him, giving him the kind of endearing look that usually gained him a smile from passerby and, if lucky, even an apple or a tangerine. Cheech was definitely not going to give him either, but at least he didn’t smack the look off his face. “Por favor? I didn’t know you could sing.”

Cheech hadn’t been that easy to convince, but in the end he’d given up, and played a couple of songs for him before telling him to get lost. The same had happened when Héctor had returned the next day, and the next and the next.

A week later Héctor had asked him to  _ teach _ him how to play, no longer content with just listening. Chicharrón had mumbled, huffed, grumbled and complained… and then he’d taught him all he knew about music. Well, almost: Héctor already could sing, kinda, because the sisters at the orphanage had him and some other kids singing in a chorus at church from time to time, and on special occasions. But it had been Cheech to teach him how to coax melodies out of a guitar’s strings and how to read a music sheet.

A few months later, he’d written his first song. It had been about the dead coming out of their graves for Día de los Muertos and then getting confused over which grave was whose, forcing the gravedigger to herd them back and forth across the cemetery and into the right grave before sunrise, beating them up with his wooden leg if they got too stubborn.

It would have horrified Padre Edmundo and the sisters at the orphanage, and it had made old Cheech laugh so hard he’d almost spat out a lung, or so he’d claimed. Héctor hadn’t been sure if spitting out a lung was actually possible, but getting even a chuckle out of the gravedigger was an accomplishment.

“Hah! Now  _ this  _ is what I call poetry. You’ve got a gift there, muchacho,” he’d said, and had ruffled Héctor’s already messy hair with a calloused hand. For all the gentle words the sister always had for him, for all the kindness Padre Edmundo had always shown him, somehow Héctor hadn’t been prepared for that… and Cheech clearly hadn’t been prepared to see the boy in front of him burst in tears.

“Oye, oye, what’s that? Are you loco? I don’t get you, kid,” he’d said, his voice gruff as ever, but he’d crouched down before the sniffling boy and given him an awkward pat on the shoulder. Héctor had wiped his eyes and wished he’d ruffle his hair again, but he hadn’t. “Stop wailing. You’re here to sing, no? Very well, let’s sing. See if you can give a grito as loud as your wailing...”

They had, and it had been fun, but Héctor had left feeling embarrassed of his outburst – so embarrassed that he hadn’t visited for a few days afterwards. And when he had, Cheech hadn’t mentioned the incident: he’d just handed him a guitar all of his own.

“I found it among my old junk. Was about to throw it out, but maybe you could put it to some use,” he’d muttered. It looked like it had been built out of the remains of a broken guitar and a few more scraps, and Héctor - while  _ really  _ struggling not to cry again - had pretended not to have noticed the cuts and splinters on Chicharrón’s hands… but he’d never forgotten, and he  _ still _ had that guitar.

“You should throw away that piece of junk and get you a new one.”

Héctor held back a grin at Cheech’s grumble. “It serves me just fine,” he said, strumming the guitar. “Whoever made it knew what he was doing.”

“Hmph,” Cheech muttered, and suddenly seemed very focused on the old spade he was getting some rust out of. Next to him, his equally foul-tempered pet rooster - Juanita, he called it, and no amount of telling him the rooster was male had seemed to matter at all - was glancing around like a guard dog, head bobbing. 

Only a few steps away, next to the shack Cheech lived in, there was a coop with several chickens and plenty of chicks in it, peeping incessantly. The old gravedigger kept a lot of chicks, claiming to be waiting for them to grow and fatten before eating them, but Héctor had yet to see him butcher a single one; he grew attached, the old grump, just like he’d grown attached to him.

Not that Chicharrón would admit as much if he had a gun pointed at his face. 

“I didn’t get you then and I still don’t get you,” he was saying now, still not looking up from the spade, obviously unsatisfied with the results his effort to get rid of the rust were yielding. “Especially with this priesthood nonsense.”

“Heh! You mentioned only a dozen times, or a hundred. Aren’t you happy to see me on the straight and narrow path to the pearly gates if heaven?”

“Pah! Straight, narrow, twisty, a goddamn maze, whatever.  _ Any _ path leads to nothing but that,” Cheech had muttered, tilting his head towards the graves. “And you’re not priest material. I’d like to have words with the nuns who put that idea in your head.”

Hector shrugged. “Well, to be fair I can’t think of much else I could do. No family, no properties, no nothing. They did keep me from dying on the steps of the church, fed and clothed me. This is how I can repay the favor, I guess. I rather like being alive, you know?”

“Not letting a baby die is basic decency, idiota, not some feat to celebrate or reward.  _ I _ wouldn’t have let you starve or run around naked, either. That’s one low bar,” Cheech muttered, causing Héctor to laugh again.

“I think I’ll be fine. I like it here, and I like helping people out. Someone’s got to look after all those kids. Got to make sure they don’t get in too much trouble. Like me,” he added, and strummed his guitar again before looking around. “Any idea where Miguel is, by the way?”

“Not the foggiest, and you’re not the first to ask,” Chicharrón grumbled. “Those two troublemakers came looking for him, too. Almost hit one of them with the spade, and Juanita gave the other a good peck on the shin. What do they think they’re doing, slinking around like that? They’ll send me to an early grave and if so I’ll make them  _ dig  _ it first.”

“Those two-- You mean Óscar and Felipe?”

“Sí, sí. The brothers of that novice, Imelda. That’s another one I don’t get. God knows if her becoming a nun would be a waste,” he added, and thankfully seemed to entirely miss the way Héctor bit his lower lip. “Anyway, haven’t seen Miguel. A bit odd. He’s usually here to annoy the hell out of us both. Just like you when you were his age, that kid. Hope he won’t get roped into the church, too.”

That was a bit off, Héctor had to admit. Where was he off to? Had he gotten in trouble with the sisters and found himself grounded? Maybe it would be best if he went to check, just for his peace of mind… and possibly to put in a good word for his early release, if need be.

As it turned out, it wasn’t needed.

“Héctor! Cheech!” Miguel’s voice rang out through the cemetery, causing both to turn. The boy was running up to them and skidded to a halt a few feet away, panting a bit but grinning from ear to ear.

“What is it, chamaco? Did you find Sister Marilena’s  _ secret _ stash of chocolate?” he asked, and Miguel laughed, shaking his head. His hair was sticking out in all direction, and suspiciously damp.

“No, still looking for that. But that’s not-- the new priest is here,” he said, and his grin widened. “And he’s the  _ best  _ priest.”

* * *

“So, that’s the new parish priest?”

“The one talking with the Cordero widow?”

“Do you see anyone else dressed like a priest?”

“He’s… young.”

“And handsome, unless the beard is deceiving.”

_ “Sister Sofía.” _

“I’m saying it how it is, Imelda. I’m saying it how it is.”

“You  _ should _ be calling me Sister Gabriela,” Imelda pointed out, but she already knew it was pointless. Hardly anyone but the Mother Superior and a few of their older Sisters ever bothered; Sofía kept saying that she’d only use it when - and  _ if, _ she’d add with a wink - Imelda actually took the vows.

There were a few moments of silence as they watched the new priest - he was quite young, yes, in his mid-twenties at most, and Imelda imagined most would describe him as good looking - laugh at something the old Cordero widow was saying, showing pearly-white teeth that seemed all the more blinding in the middle of that black beard. That didn’t escape any of them, either.

“... He is  _ very  _ handsome.”

“Nice laugh, too.”

“Almost a waste, for that one to have taken the vows.”

“Et tu, Sister Antonia? I thought your interest lay in the fairer sex.”

“What? I just so happen to have working eyes.”

“So does the old widow.”

“Are we quite done? It wouldn’t look good, you know, if he spotted four nuns--”

“Three nuns and a novice. You’re still on time to change your--”

“Do  _ not  _ finish that sentence. It still wouldn’t look good if he turned and saw the four of us--”

“Ogling?”

“... I was about to say ‘staring at him while chattering like old crones’, but I suppose ‘ogling’ describes it best. Three nuns ogling at a priest as the  _ novice  _ tries to be the voice of reason.”

“Well, we do have eyes to admire the wonders of God’s creations,” Sister Sofía said lightly.

“Never seen you looking at a sunset like that,” Imelda muttered, but precisely none of them seemed to hear her. She was about to add something a bit more scathing, but she spotted a movement out of her eye… and she wasn’t the only one.

“Oh, there’s novice Héctor!”

“Talking about waste.”

“Padre Edmundo did women everywhere a disservice by leading him to priesthood. But it’s not too late yet, Imel--”

“I am  _ not  _ hearing any of this from the mouths of brides of Christ,” Imelda said, rolling her eyes, but her lips did quirk upwards for just a moment as the nuns chuckled. Still, she made a point to turn away without another look towards the new priest… or Héctor. “Since you’re all so  _ busy, _ it seems someone should go back and tell Madre Gregoria that our parish finally has a new priest.”

“Oh, good idea. I’m certain she’ll be happy to meet him.”

“She’s old enough to be his-- oh, I’ve had it with you,” Imelda huffed, and left with quick steps, doing her best to ignore the resulting, barely muffled laughter.

* * *

Seeing the new priest standing on the steps of the church, where he’d seen Padre Edmundo greeting his parishioners for so many years, felt… not quite wrong, but not right either. For the lack of a better word, it felt jarring.

Padre Edmundo had been old, with a back that had begun bending under the weight of his years, very little white hair still stubbornly clinging to a leathery bald head, and a few missing teeth. This Padre Ernesto was much younger - maybe only a handful of years older than Héctor himself - with a full head of thick black hair, back straight as a rod, and all teeth still in place. They were showing just now, she he smiled at the old Cordero window and waved her off before she walked down the steps of the church, clearly looking to tell more people about the arrival. 

It wasn’t hard to see why Miguel, who was right at his heels, had been so impressed with him… and yet Héctor had to keep chasing away the unfair thought that no matter how good he may turn out to be, he simply could not replace Padre Edmundo.

“He has a horse, too,” Miguel was saying. “His name is Dante and he’s so big! Barely fits in the old stable where we used to keep the donkey. Padre Ernesto let me ride with him, you should have seen Óscar and Felipe’s faces when they saw us!”

Héctor hadn’t seen their faces then, but he definitely could see the expressions of plenty of bystanders who were beginning to gather around the church, clearly eager to take a look at their new parish priest. It was easy to tell Héctor wasn’t the only one who had been expecting someone… different.

Still, maybe a priest so young would be good for their parish, and Héctor had a duty to help him for as long as he could. Then he would take his vows, and he would be sent… wherever the Church saw it fitting to send him, he supposed. 

_ I still think you should be our new priest, _ Miguel had said a couple of days ago, and Héctor had laughed it off, but the truth was that he’d hoped he could be just that, someday; that once he took his vows, he may be allowed to serve at the parish of Santa Cecilia after Padre Edmundo grew too old or passed away. He loved his town, loved its people, and had no wish to leave - but Padre Edmundo had died, his novitiate had yet to end, and the town needed a someone to lead the parish. They couldn’t just wait for him to be ready.

As he walked up to the church’s step, barely listening to Miguel’s words and pretending not to have noticed Imelda walking away just as he approached, he told himself it was probably for the best. Maybe some time away without--   
_ Imelda _   
\-- distractions would do him good. Maybe he’d even get to travel, and have a wealth of stories to tell when he returned. Miguel would be sorry to see him go--   
_ maybe so would Imelda _   
\-- but he’d be happy to hear what he’d been up to when he got a chance to visit, or at least so Héctor hoped.

But he’d worry about that later. He was still a novice, and he had work to do there.

Héctor was only a few steps away from Padre Ernesto and had already opened his mouth to introduce himself when someone passed him by quickly, almost making him fall down the stairs when he shouldered him.  Héctor regained his balance just on time, and Miguel gave an angry yell. 

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, pendejo!” he exclaimed. It would have normally gained him a threat of getting his mouth washed with soap, a scathing retort on how much worse nuns had gotten at teaching proper manners to street urchins, plus a comment on bad role models while glancing meaningfully at Héctor - but this time Gustavo didn’t seem to notice either of them: he was already in front of Padre Ernesto, talking and gesturing, nearly  _ oozing  _ slime.

“… Truly blessed to welcome you here,” he was saying. “After Padre Edmundo’s unfortunate passing, Santa Cecilia has gone too long without a proper priest,” he was saying, and Héctor had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Oh yes, he  _ had  _ noticed him there all right. Jabs like that were typical of Gustavo: the parish sexton had enjoyed poking fun at Héctor since they were both boys, and had only grown more ill-spirited as years passed, to become worse than ever since Héctor had decided to take the vows. Héctor had learned to ignore him most of the time… but sometimes he wished he didn’t wear the cloth he did so that he could sock him in the jaw without consequences. Not that he would ever admit that aloud, especially in front of Miguel, who was still bristling.

“… A tiring journey, but uneventful, thankfully. I mean, thank God,” Padre Ernesto was saying. He had a pleasant, warm voice. He crossed himself, and Gustavo did the same.

“Thank God,” he echoed. “Is there anything you require, Padre?”

“I would be grateful if you could see to my horse. Some food and water for myself as well, if you please. Oh, and a razor,” he added with a laugh, reaching up to rub his beard-covered cheeks. “The sooner I can get this thorn bush off my face, the sooner I’ll feel like a human being again.”

“Of course, Padre, leave it to me. Out of curiosity, which order do you belo--” he began, only to trail off when Padre Ernesto abruptly glanced behind him and his gaze found Miguel.  He smiled broadly. 

“Ah, here’s my little guide!” he exclaimed, winking, and stepped past Gustavo. He reached to ruffle Miguel’s hair before looking at Héctor. “And you’re Hé-- Brother Héctor, I suppose? I heard a lot about you before we even made it to the church.”

Héctor smiled, glancing sideways at Miguel. “Good things, I hope.”

“For the  _ most _ part,” Padre Ernesto chuckled, and Héctor decided that yes, he liked him already. He could see why Miguel did, too.

Behind Padre Ernesto, Gustavo was rolling his eyes. Miguel noticed and spoke, all sweetness and light. “Why don’t you go tend to the horse like Padre Ernesto said, Gustavo? Poor Dante must be so tired after the long journey.”

That earned him a glare to which he answered with a grin, but there was nothing he could retort right there and then, and in the end he did as asked, mumbling something Héctor didn’t quite grasp. Not that he cared to, with Padre Ernesto clapping a hand on his shoulder and speaking again - or trying to. By then a small crowd had formed outside the church, and people were beginning to approach in small groups, speaking all at once. 

“Padre! Welcome to Santa Cecilia!” 

“I need your blessing, Padre.”

“I need to confess, it’s been two months since my last confession!”

“Confess-- oh. Oh! Of course!” The slightly hesitant expression that had crossed Padre Ernesto’s face faded within moments, so quickly that Héctor wondered if he’d imagined it. He smiled, and gestured towards the church. “I’ll be happy to confess and absolve all of you, uh, later. I first need to rest, lest I pass out in the confessional booth, and that would do good to precisely no one, no?” he added, and his smile widened. 

Héctor didn’t think he’d ever seen some of those old battle axes even smile before that moment, and yet there was a collective chuckle. 

_ Well, look at that. And here I thought an outsider would have trouble winning them over. _

A few more pleasantries were exchanged, and Padre Ernesto somehow managed to make even la Madre Superiora smile when she arrived, an old woman who was tough as leather and heavy-handed as they come with misbehaving children and adults alike. It was no accident that Miguel had vanished as soon as she’d come up the steps. 

“We do look forward to hear mass from you,” Madre Gregoria was saying. Padre Ernesto’s smile seemed to waver for only a moment, a hand clenching on the crucifix hanging from his neck, and Héctor supposed it may be nervousness; he looked young enough to have never served as a parish priest before. Then the moment passed, and the smile was back.

“I look forward to it as well,” he said. As they spoke a few more nuns - Sister Sofía, Antonia, Luciana and María Fernanda; no Imelda - approached to greet him. Knowing Sofía as well as he did - though not as well and others, really, which was to say not  _ biblically  _ \- Héctor wasn’t surprised to see she was looking at the breadth of his shoulders rather than heeding his words. When her gaze wandered to him, Héctor raised an eyebrow.

_ En serio? _

Sister Sofía’s lips quirked. Héctor tried not to roll his eyes and turned his attention back on Padre Ernesto, who was talking about his journey to Santa Cecilia and how good the Lord had been to keep him from harm, no hint of nervousness left in his voice despite being the center of all attention and curiosity, with such a responsibility to the town on his shoulders.

Héctor wished he could be half as confident.

* * *

“I’m fucked. I am fucked. I am  _ so  _ fucked.”

Flipping frantically through a Bible entirely in Latin, Ernesto allowed himself a few decidedly unpriestly curses that may or may not have called the integrity of Virgin Mary into question. Not sermon material, he knew at least that much, but he suspected knowing what not to say wasn’t a good enough basis to hold mass. 

Nor were his vague memories of attending mass, which went back to… about a decade earlier, actually, for his Confirmation. Even up to then, he’d mostly snoozed through them; the only exceptions had been the times he’d sung in the choir, which meant he was too impatient to get singing to pay attention to anything said.

He rather wished he had now but, as his current predicament showed,  _ foresight  _ was not among the many gifts of Ernesto de la Cruz, only son of a miner and a seamstress from slightly left of the middle of nowhere, Mexico. He hadn’t even realized he would be expected to say mass, in  _ Latin, _ until he’d found himself trying to recall exactly what a priest is supposed to say to give absolution after a confession. 

_ Well, this is it,  _ he thought. He’d originally planned – bit of a strong word, that – to keep the act up for maybe a couple of weeks, as long as it took for the army to hopefully move up north, and then leave again… possibly at night and possibly with some food as well as money for his trouble, courtesy of the parish’s box of offerings.  After all it was money meant for the poor and, at the moment, Ernesto owned little other than the clothes on his back, a pistol, a handful of bullets, and his horse. If  _ that  _ didn’t count as poor, he couldn’t imagine what would. 

Now it looked like the ‘take the money and run’ part of the plan would need to be enacted much sooner than that.  The thought of telling the truth crossed his mind, but he dismissed it quicky; the vast majority of people, probably including those of Santa Cecilia, hated the Huerta government, and he’d been fighting and killing for it until just the previous week. Perhaps they’d welcome him for deserting the Federal army - he’d been drafted against his will, like so many others, maybe they’d understand - or perhaps they’d hang him for having ever been one of them.  He wasn’t going to risk it. 

He’d keep up the charade and stay a couple of days, Ernesto decided, enough for him and Dante to eat and rest. His horse was hungry and exhausted and so was he; he was desperate to sleep in a proper bed, and have a decent meal - or two or three - after eating hardly anything but strips of salt beef for three days and then nothing for the past two, aside from one stupid bird he’d managed to shoot down.

He could avoid saying mass until then, Ernesto thought, tossing the Bible on the bed. He’d pretend to be sick, maybe fake a splitting headache; after traveling all the way there under that sun, no one would be surprised.

_Sun’s_ _packing_ _a_ _good_ _punch_ _today,_ _eh,_ _Nesto?,_ Alberto had muttered only a few days earlier, riding slightly ahead of him as they scouted well ahead of their unit as instructed, to ensure no revolutionaries were in wait among the rocky outcrops. They found no one; no revolutionaries, no soldiers… no witnesses.

_Beats_ _harder_ _than_ _my old man,_ Ernesto had agreed, his face blank as he pulled out his pistol and took aim. 

One shot at the back of the head had cut off the other man’s laugh, and granted him a way out of the army. It had been nothing personal: he’d even liked Alberto, who had joined the army the same day Ernesto had been drafted and often asked him to sing to pass time. But he’d been a supporter of the government, would have never agreed to run off or keep silent if he did and, in that moment, he’d been the one thing  between him and freedom – so he had to go. Ernesto had been handed a way out, and seized his moment when he had to. He’d keep doing so until he was safe from that stupid war, and the damn army.

_ They don’t get to complain. They put a gun in hand, taught me to use it, made me use it, made me a murderer. I’m trying to survive. Nothing more. _

Reassured that he still had the situation firmly under control, Ernesto went to the basin of water on the small table at the far end of the room, where Gustavo had left a towel, soap and a razor as requested. He threw some water on his face, and looked up into the small mirror to see his reflection for the first time in days.

Maybe it was the thick beard or the dark shadows under his eyes, or the tired look now that he had no jovial act to keep up, but he found himself thinking he looked at least a decade older than he was. But it was all right: the beard would go now, to make him less recognizable in case soldiers just happened to come to Santa Cecilia, and a good night of sleep and a meal - whatever priests were allowed to eat during la Cuaresma would seem like a king’s dinner compared to what he’d been living on - would take care of the rest. 

Humming to himself, Ernesto lathered his face with soap and began to shave, careful to leave a mustache so that his face wouldn’t look  _ too _ naked. By the time he was done and smiled at his reflection in the mirror, he felt a lot better.  He could charm those idiots for a couple of days, and that was all he needed. After all, Miguel had described Santa Cecilia as an utter bore of a town. 

What could possibly change in two days?

* * *

“Oye, Imelda. May I come in?”

“... You already let yourself in, so I guess.”

“Thanks. Chocolate?”

“We are supposed to be fasting and giving up on luxuries throughout la Cuaresma.”

“We are also  _ supposed _ to be committed to lifelong chastity.”

“I am.”

“That’s why I brought you chocolate,” Sister Sofía said lightly, placing the dish with bits of dark chocolate on Imelda’s desk. She rolled her eyes, but then her stomach grumbled and she reached to take one. They weren’t fasting in the sense they ate  _ nothing, _ of course, but their portions were smaller and, well, she was hungry.

“Isn’t Sister Antonia available to entertain you tonight?”

“Guess what  _ she _ gave up.”

“Unfortunate.”

“I’ll find something to distract myself. I’ve been picked to help out at the parish, since Gustavo won’t bother to touch the laundry, dust or make meals,” she added, looking entirely too pleased with herself, and popped some chocolate in her mouth. Imelda sighed. 

“And I suppose this isn’t due to a newfound passion for laundry, cooking and cleaning.”

“It’s due to curiosity, mostly. We already do all that at the orphanage, anyway.”

“I have serious concerns as to what you’re  _ curious _ about,” Imelda said drily. “And what made Mother Gregoria pick you of all people? She’s not so stupid she cannot guess--”

“She  _ reaaally _ wants that donation my papá promised.”

“... Of course,” Imelda muttered. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Sofía’s family’s wasn’t precisely rich, but they owned land and were significantly more well-off than most others. “They came to visit you last week, didn’t they?”

“With a list if potential husbands, and someone ready to write to the Vatican to free me from the loving clutches of the Catholic Church.”

“And none interested you?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. Her own family had been questioning her choice, arguing that it wasn’t a matter of religious calling but rather her ‘womanly stubborness’ to be picky over her marriage perspectives. 

Which was, truth be told, absolutely correct, but Imelda would eat a live scorpion before admitting as much. There was absolutely no one--   
_ no one available _   
\-- in Santa Cecila whom she could imagine herself married to. 

She could have simply stayed unmarried, but the prodding would have never ended; her brothers seemed to be the only ones who didn’t care whether she married or not. Eventually, she’d figured taking the veil would shut them up. It hadn’t quite silenced them yet, but that should change once the novitiate was over and she took her vows. 

And then, perhaps - once the Revolution was over - she could sign up to go on missions, to travel, to see places. She would like that. It had been one of the perspectives that had convinced her to take the veil, along with that of a better education. She would have loved to stay at home, in Santa Cecilia… but not at their terms.

“I have standards, Imelda,” Sofía was saying, unaware of her thoughts. “Admittedly low ones, but I have them. Let alone if it’s about something I’d need to endure for more than a night, or however long it takes me to get my hands on arsenic.”

That caused Imelda’s lips to quirk. “Thou shall not kill.”

“A nice suggestion. Are the rifles and bullets in the basement meant to water flower beds?”

Imelda’s smirk faded within a moment. “Not so loud,” she hissed, giving a quick glance towards the closed door of her cell. She turned back to Sofía with a scowl. “I  _ told _ you, it’s only for a week. They will send for someone to take them soon.”

“I sure hope one of those bullets finds its way into Huerta’s heart, for all the trouble they are,” Sofía muttered, but she did lower her voice. “I’m amazed you haven’t joined the fight, really.”

“I’ll be of better use to the Revolution here,” Imelda replied, and it was true. She could hide weapons, pass on messages, occasionally find a hiding place for someone, and smuggle them in the infirmary if wounded. “They need as many friends in the clergy as possible. Padre Edmundo turned in a blind eye--”

“No, he just really didn’t realize a thing. Trust me.”

“... But we don’t know where this Padre Ernesto stands,” she added, and a sudden thought hit her. She turned to Sister Sofía to see she was grinning. “Oh. So  _ this _ is what you’re looking to find out by serving at the parish.”

Her grin widened. “Among other things, yes. I’ll report my findings. All of them.”

“Stick to the ones relevant for the cause, if you don’t mind,” Imelda muttered, causing Sofía to chortle before she gave her an oddly serious look.

“Perhaps it is time we involve brother Héctor. He may not be the parish priest, but--”

No, Imelda thought. No. Too dangerous. “Sofía,” she said slowly. “Look at me in the eye and tell me you really think he could keep a secret  _ without _ it showing on his face clear as day.”

“Oh, I think he’s a better actor than you give him credit for. It’s only his helpless love for you that he cannot hide,” Sofía added, the grin back, and Imelda regretted even replying to her. 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she muttered pointedly, and focused on the book in her hands. Not religious reading, but the Lord could forgive her, or mind His own business for once. “I’d like to be left along with my thoughts,” she added, and to her relief Sofía did not insist. 

“All right. I’ll leave some chocolate for you here,” was all she said before taking the dish and walking out, leaving Imelda alone with a novel she now couldn’t possibly hope to focus on.

* * *

“Madre de Dios, Padre, are you really that desperate to meet the Lord early? You need rest. I will let you have a room for another night.”

“If He wills it, I shall gladly meet Him. I must be on my way.”

“It’s a long road to Santa Cecilia. What are you seeking so urgently?”

“Salvation, if I may have the presumption to ask for it. Is this enough for the churro?”

“Qué?”

“The… the _burro,_ I apologize. My Spanish is not… is it enough for the donkey?”

“Sí. You, uh. You may want to take my hat, Padre. The sun beats hard these days, and you’re very... well…” Pablo paused, not quite sure of what he should say.  _ Very white,  _ he’d been about to say, but that wouldn’t be quite correct at the moment, given that the gringo’s face was decidedly reddened by the sun already. “... Sunburnt,” he finally said.

Father John Johnson - what an exotic name, Pablo had thought when he’d introduced himself - turned away from the satchel he’d been trying to the donkey’s saddle, and smiled. 

He was already sweating, ridiculously light blond hair plastered to his forehead. He looked young, with a scraggly blond beard along his jaw, but there was something in the thin line of his mouth and the somber expression in the watery blue eyes - a bit unnerving, those - that made him seem strangely old, too. 

Then he smiled, and he suddenly didn’t look a day past thirty. 

“That would be very kind of you, Paul,” he said. “You truly are a good Samaritan.”

“Pablo. That’s my  _ christian _ name,” Pablo pointed out, unable to keep some annoyance out of his voice; he had done that before, and kept referring to his son Eduardo as Edward. But he’d caused no trouble and blessed his home as well as paying for his stay without trying to haggle for a lower price, and it was more that could be said of some people. He took off his hat to hand it to that crazy, crazy gringo.

He  _ had _ to be crazy to be there at all. Mexico wasn’t a good place to be those days, with Huerta’s iron fist on them all and revolutionaries fighting it with all they had, and it could be especially dangerous for an American, depending on who he met on his way. There was no love lost between Huerta and that country, who refused to recognize his regime as legitimate… and as a whole, truth be told, not many people liked gringos for a host of excellent reasons, the theft of their land up north still too fresh in their memories.

Had it not been a priest, and had he not been a God-fearing man, Pablo wouldn’t have let him in his inn - much less give him directions to Santa Cecilia and sell him a donkey, no matter how much money he offered.

“I wish you a safe journey, then,” Pablo said as the priest climbed up on the donkey, a bit clumsily. Not that Pablo had expected him to hop on effortlessly: he  _ was _ a bit on the pudgy side. The previous night, his wife had quipped that his face looked like a ball of raw dough.

“Thank you,” Father John said, reaching into a satchel as though to check for something. He pulled out a worn-out copy of the Bible, and opened it briefly; Pablo got a glimpse of a piece of paper tucked between the pages, as worn as the Bible itself, like it had been handled and read many times over. The man’s features twisted as if in pain for a moment before he closed the Bible and put it back in the satchel. He nodded at him. 

“God bless you, Paul.”

Oh, for heaven’s  _ sake. _ With a sigh and no small amount of effort, Pablo decided to ignore it. “May I ask what you plan on doing in Santa Cecilia, Padre?”

The smile faded a little, and John looked suddenly older again. “The Lord’s work, if He finds me deserving,” he said gravely, and got the donkey moving. “The Lord’s work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the OCs: I fully take the blame for Sofía, but it should be known that John is pretty much a collective creation of the Coco Locos server. I only take about 25% of the blame for his pompous ass.


	3. Holy Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I mean being a Catholic priest only takes years of study and training how hard can it be”  
> – Ernesto, probably.
> 
> (Art in this chapter is by Senora_Luna!)

“We have to keep going.”

“Santiago, we don’t even know which way he went…”

“Then we split up and keep looking!”

“To regroup where? And what if we meet enemies? We’d be easy prey-- Chago, wait! We lost him. We can’t keep looking blindly for--”

“Then go back to the barracks. De la Cruz is out there somewhere. I’ll find that traitor myself, and hang him with my own hands for what he did to Beto,” Santiago snapped, and turned his horse to face Nando, a scowl on his face. It caused the other man to rear back on the saddle, but Santiago didn’t see him, not really.

All that he had before his eyes - all that he’d been seeing, even behind his own eyelids when he shut them - was Alberto’s body on the ground, the blood and brain matter splattered on the rocky ground, carrion birds already beginning their descent… and the tracks of two horses leaving. They had found Beto’s horse not too far away, wandering lost, but Ernesto de la Cruz was nowhere to be found. He’d fled like the coward he was, after shooting a man from behind.

_He didn’t have to do it. He was giving him his back, he could have stunned him if he so wanted to escape._

“Chago, listen,” Nando spoke again, reaching to put a hand on his arm. “There is nothing more we can do now, and you need to be reasonable,” he said, and sighed. “I know he was your friend. I am sorry it was you to find him.”

Santiago almost snapped back, but he suddenly found he had no strength to. He had to swallow before he spoke. “His mother is waiting for him at home,” he said, very quietly. “How can I go back and tell her Beto is dead if I don’t at least avenge him? I promised Raquel I’d look after him, and now…”

“It is _war,_ Chago. She knew death was a real possibility.”

Of course they all had known that, but it had seemed such a distant concept when they’d signed up - Alberto with the eagerness of a man who wants to prove something, and Santiago with a sense of duty that compelled him to follow his friend as he always had. And even afterwards… death in battle, or even in a skirmish, was one thing. Being shot in the back by a deserter was worse. It was unfair. It was personal.

“I should have been the one on patrol with him,” Santiago murmured. He would have been, normally, but the day Alberto had died he’d been assigned to some other menial task, and Ernesto de la Cruz had been chosen to go with him instead. Beto - who had waved at him before going off, telling him he’d see him later - had liked the man, but Santiago had never quite warmed up to him; he recognized a coward at heart when he saw one. He hadn’t trusted him but even so, he’d never thought he’d kill Beto in cold blood and flee.

“It wasn’t your fault that you weren’t,” Nando was saying, a hand still on his arm. Santiago nodded, but in truth he’d hardly heard him.

_I joined the army because he had, but now he’s gone and I can’t do this on my own._

But he would have to, of course. He’d have to brush it off the best he could and keep marching on. He didn’t have to like it; he just needed to make himself keep going through the motions until the right moment came, until he could finally get his hands on Beto’s murderer - because he would, come what may. He couldn’t allow himself to doubt that for one moment.

De la Cruz couldn’t get away with it. He wouldn’t. Maybe not today or tomorrow or the day after that, but _someday_ Santiago would face him again.

And that day, Ernesto de la Cruz wouldn’t get the luxury of a quick death.

* * *

When it was time to thank God for his food and whatnot, Ernesto barely needed to pretend; he hadn’t had a proper breakfast in so long he was ready to personally thank _everyone,_ from God down to the hens who had laid the eggs, and the nun - Sister Sofía, was it? - who had put the dish in front of him.

If anything, the hard part was focusing on the prayer with that delicious smell distracting him, and trying to make himself pause and chew instead of guzzling it all down in seconds. After the first few bites, he found that easier.

“Where are Gustavo and Brother Héctor?” Ernesto asked after swallowing another mouthful. It occurred to him that the novice would likely live there as well - he hadn’t bothered looking around much after being led to his room the previous day, and he’d have expected the sexton to have showed up by now.

Sister Sofía shrugged, and dropped another couple of eggs on his plate. She was a good deal shorter than him, thin as a twig and nothing much in the way of looks, but as he wolfed down the extra eggs Ernesto thought he could kiss her on the mouth right there and then if it weren’t so likely to land him in trouble.

“Gustavo showed up earlier, but he was absolutely useless here, so I sent him off to feed your horse. Brother Héctor is helping Chicharrón at the cemetery. His joints aren’t what they used to be, and he needed some assistance straightening up a tombstone. Not that he’ll admit it. He’s probably grumbling that Héctor didn’t need to show up at all right now, while watching him do the heavy work.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow, trying and failing to picture the beanpole he’d met at the church’s steps lifting anything heavier than a basket of laundry, but he didn’t ask. “Chicharrón?” he asked instead.

“The old grave digger, Padre. You’ll meet him today, I wager.”

“I’m guessing that’s not his real name,” Ernesto said. For a moment he kicked himself for not giving a fake name, or asking the dying priest for his own so that he could use it. But then again, he suspected that might have led him to fail to respond when called, which would have probably been rather suspicious.

Unaware of his thoughts, and pouring some more water in his glass, Sister Sofía shook her head. “No, but good luck getting the real one out of him. No one knows.”

“Must be embarrassing, if he’d rather be called after fried pork,” Ernesto muttered. Sister Sofía laughed and so did he - only to realize his mistake when she spoke again.

“It’s good to see your headache is gone, Padre.”

For the second time in a minute, Ernesto felt like kicking himself really hard. He’d come out of his room mumbling that his head hurt, so that he could get out of saying the afternoon mass, but breakfast had been so good he’d simply forgotten to keep the act up.

_No matter. I can claim it spiked up again. I just need to be careful now._

“It is slightly better,” he said, and put the fork down on the plate. “It was all delicious, Sister.”

Sister Sofía smiled. “Oh, I’m glad,” she said, and went to take his dish off the table, standing close to him. Very close. Close enough that her arm brushed against his own, startling him a little and causing him to look up. Still, nothing showed on her face. “Anything else, Padre?”

_Nothing a nun can give, but thanks for the reminder I’ve gone too long without a woman._

“No, nothing,” Ernesto said, a bit too quickly, and stood. “Is… is there a schedule, or…?”

“This is about the time people come in for confession.”

“Oh, great. I mean-- I’ll be in the confessional in a few minutes,” Ernesto said quickly, and left, heading to his room - he needed the Bible, plus pen and paper - before she could ask anything else, acutely aware of her gaze fixed on his retreating back.

* * *

_They will come collect everything tonight. Keep the back door open. Ensure no one is there._

The note had no name on it, as always. It was safer that way; if she and whoever was keeping direct contact with the revolutionaries kept ignoring other's identity, they could be sure that information could never be forced out of them under any circumstances.

The notes, always written in the same handwriting, came inside the collection box, and Imelda always made sure she'd be the one to collect the offerings for the orphanage - or, if not, that Sofía would do it. She, at least, could be trusted to be discreet.

... Well, no. Not really. But on such serious matters, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

After giving a quick look around - the church was empty aside from a few people waiting by the confessional and, she assumed, Padre Ernesto inside said confessional - Imelda held the note over a candle, and let it burn. The small piece of paper quickly turned to ashes, the smell easily covered by incense burning, and she went to look for Sofía.

She found her in the sacristy, getting the purple robe out of the closet and ready for the afternoon mass.

"He's bigger than Padre Edmundo was," Sofía muttered when she saw her walking in, eyeing the robe. “Broader shoulders, deeper chest. It's going to be a tight fit."

"I can just hear the sorrow in your voice," Imelda said, holding back a smile, then lowered her own voice. "They'll come to take the weapons and ammunitions tonight."

"Your friend wrote you, huh? Ever wonder who it is?"

"It's not relevant. Have you found out anything about Padre Ernesto?"

Sofía shrugged. "He's got a cleft chin. Still like him best without the beard."

Imelda forced herself to hold back an exasperated sigh. "Anything else?"

"I'm almost positive he puts something in his hair to keep it that glossy. It can’t be natural."

"Are you making a point to annoy me?"

"I want to see how far I can push it before I make you curse in a church."

If not for the fact she had the basket with the offerings in her hands, Imelda would have smacked her. Maybe she should consider using the basket. "Anything of any relevance?"

"He's got a healthy appetite. And he seems rather out of his depth," she added quickly when she noticed Imelda's eye twitching just a little. "He almost began eating without a prayer. He's like a fish out of water. But that's likely because he just arrived."

Yes, Imelda had to admit that was a likely explanation. Still, with all that was going on, having a perfect stranger at the helm of the parish unnerved her. She'd feel safer once she knew something more about him. If only Héctor had taken his vows already... no. She wouldn't allow herself to think of that. "Nothing that gave any indication of where he stands?" she asked instead.

Sofía rolled her eyes. "That's hardly something you tell a stranger over breakfast. Give me time, Imelda. I'll crack this one and give you answers."

"It might be worth having a look at his room."

"I told you, I need time to--"

"Without him in it, Sofía," Imelda said drily, getting herself a laugh and a hand on her shoulder.

"You worry too much. He's just a priest, from way out of town and probably fresh out of the seminar. At worst, we need to be careful around him as we are around most others."

Imelda hated to admit that maybe she was worrying too much, but... well, maybe she was worrying too much. She sighed, and nodded. "All right. But if you find out anything--"

"You'll be the first one to know," Sofía reassured her. "And if there is any reason to, we'll search his room. I think I know where I can find a spare key."

"Gustavo?"

"Gustavo the Disappointment. Though to be fair I was expecting little, so being let down wasn't a long drop."

Imelda's lips quirked upwards. "I believe I heard you saying  _never again,_  though."

That gained her a solemn nod. "I did. But if it's to get that key, so be it,” Sofía said, and gave a long sigh. “I did commit myself to a life of sacrifice, after all."

* * *

Ernesto hadn’t bothered to confess himself in a very, very long time.

Even when he had to, it had simply been… something he had to do. It wasn’t always easy, because apparently he was supposed to confess to wrongdoings - and he couldn’t think of any, he had good _reasons_ for everything he did - or actions that he regretted, which was… rare.

For his first confession as a kid, prior to his first Communion, he’d flipped through the pages of a Bible and taken note of sins that sounded especially impressive: just because it was something he _had_ to do, it didn’t mean he had to half-ass it. He wanted it to be _memorable._

He hadn’t understood most of the words he’d read, and the priest inside the confessional had been quite confused to hear a nine-year-old confessing to _fornication;_ much later on, Ernesto would muse he had simply been confessing his main sin ahead of time. Back then, he’d fixed everything by adding ‘and I just told lies’ at the end of the confession.  He’d had to say hell knew how many _Ave Maria_ for that, but at least he hadn’t made the confession _boring_ to listen to. Like, say, the ones he was listening right now, sprawled on the amazingly uncomfortable wooden seat inside the confessional.

Miguel had been right: absolutely _nothing_ of interest seemed to happen in that place.

“... And what’s worse, I have…” the whisper became fearful, getting up Ernesto’s hopes to hear something interesting. “I have lain with my husband, last night...”

_Thunk._

“Padre? What was that?”

With his forehead resting against the wooden panel he’d let it drop against, Ernesto held back a sigh and a muttered ‘congratulations’. That was worse that the idiot who had confessed to stealing an apple, or another who envied the neighbor for his plump chickens. “Nothing, child. So, you slept. With your husband. Great. And...?”

“And… we did not… we didn’t do so in order to conceive. We know it is wrong, but we cannot afford another child!”

“That’s fair enough. How many children do you have?”

“Seven.”

“... It does sound like a good place to stop, yes.”

“I need your absolution, Padre.”

“What for? It’s your husband.”

“But we committed onanism!”

“That’s… what usually happens when it’s done right?”

“What?”

Oh, Ernesto thought, straightening himself. Wait. He quickly glanced down at the the piece of paper he’d scribbled his notes on, squinting. “Ah. Right. _Onanism._ That _is_ concerning.”

The voice on the other side of the wooden panel turned anxious. “Can I have absolution?”

“Of course,” Ernesto muttered, turning the piece of paper on the other side. “Ego te absol--”

“No… no penance?”

_Yes, start reciting the goddamn Holy Father and keep going until you die._

“... Say ten Hail Mary. Ego te absolvo a pa… pe… peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Next,” Ernesto sighed, rubbing his forehead as he heard the woman rising from her kneeling position outside the confessional. His head was _really_ starting to hurt, so maybe he wouldn’t even need to lie about it later that day.Not that he planned to confess a thing either way.

After that confession nonsense was over with, he’d go out to have a walk. He needed to be out in the open again… and to check the quickest route out of that town, just in case.

* * *

“This… this is for _me?_ Really?”

“Of course!”

“Made it ourselves!”

“Couldn’t make you keep using that old thing!”

“No offense, Cheech.”

“Please don’t chase us with a stick again.”

“ _Hmph._ You can count yourselves lucky I just sat down.”

There was something oddly amusing in the protective way Cheech patted the old guitar on his knees, and if he’d looked Miguel would have seen Héctor - still sweaty and panting a bit, because pulling tombstones back upright was hard work - trying and failing to hold back a smile. But he wasn’t looking, all of his attention taken by the guitar Óscar and Felipe had just handed to him, white and shiny and with a skull motif on the head. It was the most beautiful thing Miguel had ever seen, let alone owned.

“You mean it? It’s mine?” he asked, his voice suddenly small, and looked up to see both twins grinning, clearly pleased with his reaction.

“Sure!”

“We said it, didn’t we?”

Miguel smiled, trying to ignore a sudden tightness in his throat. “Thank you! It’s… I just don’t know if they’ll allow me to keep it…” he muttered, barely daring to touch the strings. The sisters at the orphanage tended to frown upon personal possessions, saying it wasn’t fair for one child to have more than the others. But maybe, if he promised he'd let other children use it, and play it for them...

"Of course they won't," Felipe muttered, sounding almost offended.

"Imelda wouldn't let them," his brother added, causing Héctor to frown.

"Your sister is still a novice, chicos. She can't argue against a decision taken by one of the Sisters, or la Madre Superiora, any more than I could argue a decision by Padre Edm-- Ernesto."

"But she would," Felipe pointed out. That caused Héctor to smile a bit, a fond smile that he wasn't quick enough to smother.

"Oh, I know she would. That's exactly what worries me," he said, causing the boys to laugh a little and Chicharrón to scoff.

"Hmph. That is an argument I'd like to see," he muttered, throwing away the stick he'd been chewing on for his pet rooster to catch and, apparently, try to kill. Miguel was pretty sure Juanita wasn't right in the head. "Either way, these two pend--"

"Cheech," Héctor said, a bit warningly, but the old man waves a hand in dismissal.

"... These two are right. That guitar is yours. If those penguins--"

_"Cheech."_

"-- If the _nuns_ try to take it from you, they're thieves," he finished, rolling his eyes at Héctor before looking at Miguel. "Just do as Héctor did when he was your age and leave the guitar with me, muchacho. I'll keep it at my place and you can come play it whenever you want. If anyone asks, it's mine."

"That's lying," Miguel pointed out, but he was already grinning from ear to ear, holding tightly onto the guitar. "Thanks, Cheech."

"Don't mention it. Better to hear your music than your whining when it's taken from you."

"Aww, he has a heart!"

"Soft as butter!"

".. Don't push it, kids," Cheech warned, but Óscar and Felipe just grinned before looking back at Miguel expectantly.

"Well, come on! Play us something!"

"Yes, we made it for a reason!"

"It probably needs tuning first, that is not our thing..."

It did need tuning, but Miguel took care of it quicky; when he gave a strum, the sound was perfect. For a moment he considered playing one of Héctor's songs - he wrote so many of them, he'd showed him his songbook once - but he knew he didn't like to let too many people know he wrote songs that were not about religion at all, so in the end he just went for something else entirely. There was that song he'd heard a couple of weeks ago from a few travellers, how did that go again...?"

 _"En el condado del Carmen_  
_Miren lo que ha sucedido_  
_Murió el Cherife Mayor_ _  
Quedando Román herido"_

 _"Otro día por la mañana_  
_Cuando la gente llegó_  
_Unos a los otros dicen:  
'No saben quien lo mató'"_

“Se anduvieron...  anduvieron…” Miguel's voice faltered, the next line failing to show in his mind, his fingers stilling on the strings. For a moment he felt lost, that odd sense of utter confusion when something you _should_ know escapes you for no reason - but then another voice rang out and yes, those _were_ the right words.

 _"Se anduvieron informando_  
_Como tres horas después_  
_Supieron que el malhechor_ _  
Era Gregorio Cortez!"_

"Wha-- oh! Padre Ernesto!" Héctor exclaimed, quickly standing upright - he'd been leaning on a grave, which he wasn't supposed to be doing. Not that Padre Ernesto seemed to care.

"Brother Héctor. My apologies, I couldn't resist," he said brightly, leaning against the low dry stone between the cemetery and the path he must have been walking on.

“You can sing!” Miguel exclaimed in awe. They really had been sent the best possible priest. “I mean-- you sing so well!”

Ernesto smiled, looking almost giddy at the praise. "Gracias, niño. It’s been a while since last time I got to really sing. This is one of my favorites,” he said, climbing over the low wall to step in the cemetery. Miguel blinked up at him as he approached.

"You know this song?"

"Who doesn't? He-- er," Padre Ernesto paused, and seemed to hesitate, but then he shrugged and he was smiling again, like it was nothing. "It's a very popular song up north near the border, but it makes sense it's not heard as often here," he added, and glanced towards Chicharrón. "You’re the gravedigger, aren’t you? I don't believe we have me-- gah!"

With a sudden screech, Juanita threw himself at Padre Ernesto in a whirlwind of fury and feathers. Padre Ernesto hurriedly stepped back just as Héctor yelled - _“No, Juanita!”_ \- and launched himself to grab the rooster. Still sitting on his chair, Cheech raised an eyebrow.

“Juanita doesn’t like him,” he noted, sounding oddly solemn and ignoring the confused look Óscar and Felipe were exchanging. Miguel would have pointed out that the rooster didn’t seem to like _anyone_ he didn’t know well, but his attention was taken by Héctor’s struggle to contain Juanita. He’d managed to grab the rooster, who didn’t seem pleased at all but wasn’t struggling as hard as Miguel knew he could to break free.

"Sorry! Juanita is not always like this. I mean, he's _often_ like this. Just not always," Héctor was saying, causing Padre Ernesto to blink.

"Juanita?"

"Yes."

"But it's a roos--"

"We know. Cheech wouldn't change his mind, though," he added with a chuckle, and to Miguel's relief Padre Ernesto laughed, reaching up to smooth back his hair. There had been a lot of protests from people visiting the cemetery, claiming that Juanita had tried to attack them as they paid their respects. Padre Edmundo’s calming words were the only thing that had kept some of them from trying to turn Cheech’s pet into dinner. It was good to see the new parish priest wasn’t adding himself to the rooster’s long list of enemies.

“Cheech, this is Padre Ernesto,” Héctor said, thrusting Juanita in his arms a little more forcefully than it would have been necessary. The old man huffed, but reached to stroke his rooster’s head to calm him down before nodding towards the priest. He didn’t try to get up from the chair, but that could be excused due to his wooden leg… as long as you couldn’t guess that he simply didn’t _want_ to stand up.

“Juanita doesn’t like you,” he repeated drily. A slightly annoyed expression crossed Padre Ernesto’s features just for a moment before he smiled and shrugged.

“Then it seems Juanito and I--”

_“Juanita.”_

“-- Shouldn’t come too close to each other for our mutual safety, then,” he said, his smile a little sharper, and turned his attention on the guitar in Miguel’s hands. “That’s a fine guitar.”

“Of course it is!” Felipe piped in, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest.

"We made it!" his brother echoed immediately.

"The best guitar we ever made!"

"Also the first guitar we ever made."

"Which still makes it the best, though."

“Right!”

Padre Ernesto laughed. “You did an impressive job, then. It sounded really good. And you’ve got some real talent there, muchacho,” he added, causing Miguel’s chest to swell with pride. Héctor had said that, too, but Héctor was always nice and encouraging to everyone even when they were _terrible_ at things, and it made it hard to tell how real his praise was.

“Thank you! Can you teach me the rest of the song? I could only memorize the first part.”

“... You’re playing it by memory?” Padre Ernesto blurted out, blinking, and Héctor chuckled, reaching to ruffle Miguel’s hair.

“As you said, Padre, he’s got real talent,” he said. It was something he would have never said in front of Padre Edmundo, because _he_ would have definitely muttered something on how he should be mindful not to feed a child’s pride, as it was a deadly sin and whatnot. Padre Ernesto, however, just nodded in agreement and held out a hand.

“Would you mind?” he asked, and Miguel’s eyes went huge. All fear that someone would take away his guitar seemed very far away; he knew, instinctively, what that was about.

“You can _play,_ too?” Miguel asked, handing him the guitar. He took it with a wink.

“Some say it’s what I do best,” he said, and gave the guitar a strum. The sound put a smile back on his face. “Now, it’s been a while, but let me see. Brother Héctor, care to join…?”

* * *

Gustavo hated horses.

They stank, they tried to bite you or kick you or worse and they always, _always_ made a mess; Padre Edmundo’s donkey had been so much easier to look after than the beast the new priest had come riding on. But looking after it now was among his duties, even though it was clear the horse wasn’t especially fond on him, either.

It followed that, as he walked back to the church, he wasn’t in a good mood. What did help, however, was hearing music and singing coming from the cemetery, because he recognized at least two the voices.

 _Insortaron a Cortez_  
_Por toditito el estado:_  
_"Vivo o muerto que se aprehenda_ _  
Porque a varios ha matado!"_

Well, now  _that_ was a good chance to knock Héctor down a notch or two.The darling of the parish, and the darling of the orphanage before then - who did he think he was? The _cemetery_ wasn’t the right place to play music with that brat who kept following him around and the old gravedigger who kept refusing to die. Héctor was so clearly good for nothing, but Padre Edmundo had been entirely blind to that.

Well, now the parish was under new management. What an unwise move, letting himself be caught; it would make for a rather bad first impression with the new priest. Certainly Padre Ernesto would see things his way.

 _Decía Gregorio Cortez_  
_Con su pistola en la mano:_  
_"No siento haberlo matado_ _  
Al que siento es a mi hermano"_

Almost giddy with anticipation, Gustavo walked the few steps that separated him from the stone wall and leaned on it with a sneer. “Giving spectacle in the cemetery, _brother_ Héctor, really? I wonder what Padre Ernesto is going to sa-- Padre Ernesto?”

Under his stunned gaze, Padre Ernesto looked back at him in mild confusion, a white guitar still in his arms, pausing mid-twirl. At either side of him, the little brat and Héctor - who was holding that old guitar made out of scraps - stared at him like hares before a coyote. The old man was scoffing, the the two boys whose names he kept forgetting snickered.

“Oh, Gustavo! Care to join in?” Padre Ernesto smiled.

Gustavo opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Ignored the way Miguel was beginning to smirk, ignored the smile beginning to tug at the corners of Héctor’s mouth, and took a step back. His eyes kept shifting from the priest to the guitar in his hands, and then back to him.

“No, I. Er. I was just here to… to…” A bell rang, and Gustavo recoiled. “To remind you that the afternoon mass will be in a hour,” he blurted out.

The smile on Padre Ernesto’s face faded like a blown-out candle. “Ah,” he said. “About… about that--”

“We need to go and get ready!” Miguel - who, for some reason, was the main altar boy despite being nothing but trouble - exclaimed, and took the white guitar from Padre Ernesto to hand it to Chicharrón before he took off running. “Come on, Héctor! See you in church, Padre!”

 _No running in the cemetery,_ Gustavo should have yelled, and he normally would have, but now he couldn’t quite find his voice. He just stared at their retreating backs, speechless, and didn’t notice Padre Ernesto glancing at the church as though staring at a hangman’s noose.

* * *

Everything was going fine.

Mass was about to begin, he barely remembered how it was supposed to start off, the purple robe for la Cuaresma was uncomfortably tight - "We'll get Ceci to fix it up," Miguel had said, like Ernesto would know who the _hell_ that was - he generally had no idea what he was doing, and he was rather sure he was about to throw up. But other than that, all was well.

_All right, all right. No need to panic. I've got this. I can do it._

"... Are you all right, Padre Ernesto?"

Ernesto looked at Miguel, all prim and proper in his altar boy clothing, and smiled brightly.

_Oh God I can't do this._

“Never been better,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Where’s Brother Héctor?”

“Oh, he plays the organ. He’s really good, hear that?”

He did, yes; he could hear the organ playing, and a chant he recognized - the entrance chant. So, time to go out there. Ernesto drew in a deep breath, nodded at Miguel, and stepped out of the sacristy. Just as he did, everyone stood.

The damn place was crowded despite it being a Saturday afternoon mass, likely because that entire damn town wanted to have a look at their new priest; in different circumstances, Ernesto would have appreciated being at the center of attention. Now he could only focus on moving towards the altar, trying to look at no one at all, and the short walk seemed to last hours as he tried to remember what the priest always did at the beginning of mass.

_He bowed to the altar, right? Right. And kissed it. And I think he incensed it and the cross. Miguel has incense, that has got to be it. All right. I got this._

He went through the motions mechanically, very nearly spilling the burning incense on the altar and on the Bible - in Latin, so entirely useless to him - but thankfully completing the task without incidents. He handed it back to Miguel, stared up at the cross, and swallowed. What was it that the priest always did no-- oh, wait. Right. He remembered that, at least.

Slowly, Ernesto crossed himself, knowing that behind him everyone else was doing the same. He spoke staring at the cross, trying to keep his voice firm. It came surprisingly easy, considering that he was beginning to regret not letting the army hang him.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he said loudly.

"Amen," everyone spoke as one behind him. So far, so good. Shame that he had absolutely no clue how to go on. He should have paid attention at Sunday school.

Ernesto looked down at the Bible, hoping to find a clue there, but absolutely not a single word made the slightest amount of sense to him. He uselessly scanned the pages, and he let his expression slip into panic for a moment, forgetting that he had his back turned to most of those present, yes, but not to all of them - and he completely missed the wide-eyed look Miguel was giving him. In the end, he set his jaw. What the hell, he would just do it his way, and hope for the best. Worst case scenario, he’d run for the back door.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said, turning and putting on his best smile. “Let me say it is a honor to be here with you all."

His words caused the parishioners to recoil, clearly taken aback. It was not how a mass was supposed to go - the priest, Ernesto knew, babbled in Latin with his back turned to everyone else almost all the time, turned around to administer the Eucharist, and then went back staring at the cross and babbling in Latin until it was over. Hopefully, they’d enjoy a change.

"I would like to once again extend my condolences for the loss of Padre Edmundo," he went on. His gaze wandered left, past a group of slightly confused nuns to Héctor, who still sat at the organ. "Let's... let's have a minute of silence to pray for him, sí?" Ernesto added, and bowed his head, hands joined. He shot a quick glance around to see that everyone was doing the same, a couple of people on the front rows wiping their eyes before doing so.

The change of pace had probably taken them aback, but if he played his cards right he could make it through that without raising too much suspicion - just a young, new priest from out of town breaking the mold for his very first mass there. They could think him eccentric, perhaps, but that wouldn’t be a problem, at least in the short term… and he had no intention to stay any longer than he had to.

With a deep breath Ernesto looked up, unclasped his hands, smiled, and began talking. And _kept_ talking. He was good at it, and no one interrupted him, no one argued. Little by little, he found he didn’t have to fake confidence anymore. All was well.

As long as no one saw through his act, he’d be fine.

* * *

For several moments, Miguel could only stare at Padre Ernesto in stunned silence.

He was talking about God now, suggesting that they had the choir sing again because ‘he who sings prays twice’ - a quote from a saint, though now Miguel couldn’t remember which one - and he sounded really confident, convincing, and charming. Everyone in the church was listening intently, clearly surprised by the change from the usual liturgy but going along because, well, the priest would know.

Except that the man standing before him - the man who had saved him from drowning, agreed not to tell as much to anyone else and just taught him a song - was not a priest. He simply couldn’t be. No one else knew because they hadn’t stood where he stood now, they hadn’t seen the look on his face as he stared at the Bible... but Miguel had. He _knew._

__

‘Padre’ Ernesto could swim, he could ride, he could sing and play and who knew what else, but he didn’t know _a single word_ of Latin.

* * *

Father John Johnson found himself staring at the mass - no, the _mess_ \- unfolding before his eyes, speechless.

It had been a long journey to Santa Cecilia, as he'd been warned, but with God at his side he'd made it there unscathed. Tired, yes, and hungry and thirsty and burned by the sun, but he accepted it all gladly - especially on Lent. Jesus Christ had suffered far worse while fasting forty days in the desert; he could endure some discomfort as he carried out his mission to teach those people proper Catholicism, to free them of their ridiculous superstition and stomp out the pagan... _rites_ they kept trying to mix with the Church's teachings.

He'd been travelling for the better part of a year now, going from town to town, from parish to parish, to that end. He wasn't always welcomed, but then again neither was Christ. He would endure, preach to those who’d listen, and carry on as every Jesuit should - prove he was worthy of the cloth he wore.

He was in the right. He could not be led astray, or frightened into giving up his mission; he wasn’t afraid of putting his life on the line. Salvation does not come for free, after all, and he would pay the highest price if need be.

_Todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina._

When he'd arrived in town, there had been few people in the streets. Most were in church for the first mass by their new parish priest, a man had told him while glancing curiously at his blond hair and pale complexion; that was how John had learned that the priest he'd written to and was supposed to meet, Father Edmund, had died, and that one Father Ernest had just arrived to replace him.

John had nodded, and murmured a silent prayer for him before he'd continued towards the church, following the directions.

Even though he usually stuck out like a sore thumb, his arrival had gone unnoticed; when he’d silently stepped inside the church to go stand in a corner, not one head had turned towards him. Everyone was staring, as though transfixed, at the priest… who was currently giving his back to the cross. And leaning on the altar with one elbow as though he was simply having a pleasant chat about God. Which, really, was exactly what he was doing.

In Spanish.

Good God, that was worse than _any_ other place he’d visited. Even though those people kept insisting on mixing paganism with Catholicism in the most distasteful ways, at least the other parishes had known how to hold a _proper_ mass. It seemed that he’d arrived just on time to help the people in that town; God had been wise to guide him there. There would be a lot of work to do, but all well worth it and desperately needed.

As that mockery of a function continued, John tiredly closed his eyes and allowed himself a long sigh, a hand reaching beneath his cassock where, in an internal pocket, he kept his Bible. He brushed his thumb on the worn-out cover, tilted back his head and opened his eyes, staring at a painting of Jesus Christ ascending to Heaven right behind the altar.

_Lend me strength,_ he thought, not knowing just how many times he'd find himself repeating that plea in the weeks to come.


	4. Miguel's Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished proofreading this while half-drunk at the airport. Here's hoping that's not too obvious.  
> Art is by Senora_Luna.

Considering that Ernesto had absolutely no clue what the hell he was even doing, he thought things were going rather well.

His way of handling things had definitely raised a few brows, of course, but no one had called his bluff and no one was chasing him with sticks demanding to know what he’d done with the real priest - funny story, that. So he counted it as a success.

He’d even remembered how to handle the Rite of Eucharist, even if he’d maybe gulped down more wine than he should have, because at one point he could have sworn he’d seen Sister Sofia licking her lips while staring at him from her place among the other nuns. He’d blinked and she looked perfectly normal, so he must have imagined it - a sure sign he’d gone too long without a woman.

Other than that, all was well. The Mass was over, everyone go in peace or something, and his cover was still up - a rather original priest from out of town. Even that bag of laughs of the Mother Superior seemed to suspect nothing. She looked slightly perplexed, maybe, but nothing more. He could pull this off for as long as it was needed.

If he didn’t know that would look odd, Ernesto would have patted himself on the back; instead, he just settled for exchanging pleasantries and nods with the parishioners as they began leaving the church… only that quickly enough the steady line towards the exit came to a halt, and a few murmurs went through the crowd, causing Ernesto to blink.

“Who may that be?”

“A gringo…?”

“Mamá, why is that man pink?”

_What the…?_

The crowd seemed to suddenly part in two, like the Red Sea before Moses - _look, mamá, I’m getting the hang of this priest thing_ \- and walking up to him there was… well, it was a gringo all right, with straw-like hair and beard. And, unless that town had somehow become a beacon for chronic liars in clergy clothes, he was also a priest.

_Uh-oh._

“Father Ernest,” the man called out, and took another step forward, bowing his head slightly. It was only the two of them before the altar, everyone else several steps away. Ernesto had enough time to wonder if he was really talking to him, but not enough say anything - let alone to correct him on his name - before he spoke again. “Laudetur Jesus Christus.”

Ernesto blinked. “I don’t speak English,” he said, only realizing his mistake when the priest - Ernesto had never in his life seen someone so ridiculously pink - blinked, taken aback.

“Wha–” he began, only to trail off when someone suddenly laughed uproariously and grasped Ernesto’s cassock.

“Hahahaha! Good one!” Miguel exclaimed, grinning up at both of them. Where had he come from? “It was funny, wasn’t it? Padre Ernesto tells the _best_ jokes!”  he added, and the grip on the cassock tightened. Realization - he _knew_ \- hit Ernesto like a jolt, but he managed not to make his shock plain. Despite the fact his heart seemed to have sunk somewhere in the vicinity of his kneecaps, Ernesto managed to smile.

“I can never resist,” he said, gaining himself a less than impressed look from the other man - who was, very clearly, allergic to fun. Still, his gaze softened when he looked at Miguel.

“Oh, the altar boy,” he said. His Spanish was… passable, Ernesto supposed, but the accent was so thick it made some words quite hard to understand. “Good afternoon. I’m Father John. And you are…?”

“Miguel. I, uh, really need to speak to Padre Ernesto a minute here, but I’ll give him back–”

“It won’t be long, Michael,” Father John said, causing Miguel to blink in confusion and Ernesto to frown. “Father Ernest and I–”

“Ernesto,” Ernesto found himself saying, more coldly than he should have. He had to shed who he was, and he had to shed his surname, but the name his parents had given him was still his own and like hell he’d let some sunburnt gringo twist it. “I was christened _Ernesto,_ with an _o_ at the end. And _his_ name is Miguel.”

It was as though he had said nothing at all. “–Have some matters to discuss,” he finished, and turned those unnerving watery eyes back to him. Ernesto met his gaze with an unimpressed look of his own. In a way, annoyance was a blessing: it kept him from freaking out over the fact that, well, the altar boy had caught him out.

“Sure thing, Padre Juan,” he said, his voice tight, and the faint smile on Father John’s face faded.

_Good._

He fully expected a cold remark, but just then Héctor approached with quick steps, waving off the small crowd that had been standing a few steps away. They seemed to get the message and resumed walking out of the church, although several of them paused to glance back, clearly puzzled. The nuns, too, looked perplexed as they passed by. Soon enough, there was only them in the church… and a very confused-looking Gustavo somewhere in the back.

“We had no idea there would be a visitor,” Héctor said, smiling widely. His voice seemed to echo in the church. “Welcome among us, Padre… I’m sorry, I did not catch that. My ears were kind of ringing a bit. The organ, you know?”

“Juan,” Ernesto quipped.

“John,” the gringo said pointedly, then smiled at Héctor. “I supposed you are the novice Father Edmund spoke of so highly of in his letters. Brother Hector, is that it?”

He pronounced it funny, but at least his name was spared. Héctor nodded. “That would be me, yes. Did you say Padre Edmundo wrote to you?”

A nod, and Father John turned back to Ernesto. The smile had already faded. “I understand that you have only just arrived in this parish,” he said. “Fresh out of seminary, I assume.”

_Fresh out of the army and oh, did I learn a thing or two there I’d like to do right now._

“You could say that,” Ernesto said instead, his voice carefully controlled, gaining himself another nod.

“I have been in touch with your predecessor, may God take him in His glory. He kindly said he’d let me stay for a time. I have been traveling Mexico for the past year--”

“Vacation?” Ernesto guessed. The guy had noticeable self-control, he had to give him that, but this time he just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“I am on a mission, on behalf of the Holy Catholic Church,” he said, his voice tight. It made his awful accent even worse, somehow. “To evangelize the people of this country.”

Ernesto blinked, and turned to Héctor, who looked back at him at an absolute loss. Not help there, then. Wondering if he hadn’t simply heard wrong - he was hard to understand at times, really - Ernesto cleared his throat. “You might be… a few centuries too late.”

“The work of God is never done.”

“No, I mean… you are. Everyone and their dog is already Catholic,” Ernesto pointed out, and the gringo _glowered_ at him.

“Surely you jest,” he muttered. “Although this is no jesting matter. Animals lack souls. They cannot possibly _be_ Catholic.”

_Oh, Jesus Christ._

“I didn’t mean that literally. Either way, the fact stays that we’re all Catholic. So sorry you had to waste a trip. But if you’d like to stay a night or two before you move on someplace else where your help is needed--”

“From what I have seen today, I believe my help is needed here and now. Especially during Lent, I believe it quite important that the holy Mass is held properly,” Father John cut him off, and Ernesto held back a groan. All right, so this guy clearly was not a fan of the spin he’d put to the traditional mass. Can’t please everyone and all that, but did he really have to be such a miserable pain in the ass?

“Well, things are still a bit, uh. As you said, I just arrived. But I guarantee we are all Catholic, so it would be rather redundant to bring over Catholicism all over aga--”

“I am talking of proper Catholicism, Father Ernest,” the man said, tilting up his chin. “Not the watered down kind you practice here, laced with pagan fetishes and superstition.”

 _Hijo de tu puta madre,_ Ernesto thought. It was a very tempting retort to utter, if a decidedly un-priestly one - and maybe the thought had showed on his face, because suddenly there was another very urgent pull at his cassock and Miguel was speaking fast.

“No! I mean-- that’s really interesting, Padre Jua-- Father John!” he blurted out, and smiled, ignoring how both Ernesto and Héctor were blinking down at him. “Why don’t you hold mass for a while? As our guest?”

That caused the gringo to blink before the surprise melted in a smile that was surprisingly warm. “I’d be happy to, if Father Ernest is willing to let me.”

“Wha--” Ernesto began to protest, only to trail off when Miguel’s foot suddenly stomped down on his - a sudden, painful reminder of two things: that the boy _knew,_ and that _he_ couldn’t hold mass for shit. “Agh! I mean - ah, what a good idea!”

Héctor frowned, eyes shifting between them. “Miguel, are you all--”

“Never been better! But now I think I really need to borrow Padre Ernesto for a minute. Or two. Or twenty,” he exclaimed, grinning widely, and began dragging Ernesto towards the sacristy. “Why don’t you show Father John around? Gustavo can look after his… horse?”

“I came with a donkey.”

“An ass on top of an ass,” Ernesto muttered under his breath, and held back a yelp when Miguel swiftly kicked his shin. Within moments they were back in the sacristy, and Miguel was slamming the door shut behind them. “That kick was entirely unnecess--”

“Who _are_ you?” Miguel demanded to know, crossing his arms, and Ernesto shut his mouth.

 _Oh,_ he thought. _Right. He figured it out. Should have left him to drown._

“I…” he began, glancing around the sacristy. He had left his gun in his room, hidden in the mattress, but he wouldn’t need that to overpower a child. He could smother him easily. But still, how could he get away without anyone noticing? Witnesses had seen him entering the room with Miguel; even if he got out from the back door after dealing with him, he… he…

“You are not a priest,” Miguel said, arms still crossed, but he didn’t look hostile; rather, he seemed curious - the way kids can be, and the full implications of what he’d been thinking hit him like a bucket of cold water. For a moment he could see the glare of the sun on the barrel of his gun and Alberto’s unprotected back in front of him, and smell gunpowder and blood in the air… only that now he wasn’t looking at a grown man at all.

A kid, Jesus Christ, he was standing there thinking of how to best kill a _kid._

“Uh, Padr-- Ernest-- señor?” Miguel’s voice reached Ernesto as though from a mile away; there was no mirror for him to look into nearby, but if there were, he was fairly sure he would have found himself staring at a face as pale as ash. He staggered backwards, and his back hit the wall.

“I…” he began, and swallowed. He could taste bile in the back of his throat. If he’d had a gun at had, if not for that gringo and for Héctor just out of the door, what _would_ have have done? “Miguel, I… how…?”

Entirely unaware of the thoughts that had been storming through his mind, Miguel shrugged. “I saw you trying to read the Bible. You didn’t just decide to do things differently, right? You don’t know any Latin.”

“I…” Ernesto swallowed again. His mouth felt dry as sandpaper. “No. I don’t know Latin.”

“So you are not a priest.”

“... No. I need to know, did you tell anyone--”

“Of course not!” Miguel exclaimed, cutting him off, and now he seemed offended. “You kept the secret when you found me at the stream and I wasn’t supposed to, remember?”

Ernesto blinked. That… wasn’t the reply he had expected, but it made sense, in a childish kind of way. _Won’t tell if you don’t._ “Ah,” he said, and sighed in relief. “That.”

“And I know people would assume all the wrong things, like, that you’re a spy from the government,” Miguel went on, rolling his eyes and not realizing the way Ernesto had stilled. “They see spies in every newcomer - I bet they’ll watch that gringo like hawks now. They think I don’t understand what they’re talking about, but I do. So maybe they would get the wrong idea, but I know better,” he added, and grinned. “You’re a good guy.”

“... Am I now?”

Miguel nodded, in a way only a nine year old stating the tenets of the universe can. “Yes! You saved me from the stream, kept it a secret, _and_ then taught me a song,” he declared, counting each feat on his fingers. “That’s good guy stuff. You can’t be with the government.”

Ernesto blinked for a few more moment before giving a guffawing laugh. What a childish, simplistic world view… and how very convenient for him. “No,” he said, and crouched down to be closer to Miguel’s eye level. “I am not with the government. Not anymore.”

For a moment, the boy seemed to falter. “Anymore…?”

“I was forced to join the army, and escaped.” _Shot a man in the process, but all wars have their casualties._ “Now I’m hiding from them.”

“Oh, I see. They forced some men from here to join, too. So you switched sides?”

“No,” Ernesto replied, more harshly than he’d meant to. “I have no side. I want no part in this war at all. I’m just trying to live through it - I’m a _musician,_ not a damn soldier.”

Miguel nodded. “Oh, that’s why you’re so good at playing and singing! And that’s why you’re pretending to be a priest… without knowing Latin. You didn’t plan this very well, did you?”

Ernesto rubbed the back of his neck. “Planning is… not my _greatest_ talent. I met the priest who was sent here from Oaxaca on the way, but he was caught up in a fight. Didn’t make it. That’s when I decided to take his place. I seized my moment,” he added. It sounded better than ‘I am sort of winging it as I go’, which was the overly honest version.

The notion seemed to sadden the boy, but only for a few moments. After all, they were talking about a man he had never met nor known. “Will they hang you if they catch you?” he asked, and suddenly sounded excited. Ernesto did _not_ like that.

“... Very likely. I’d rather not find out, though,” he added, reaching up for his throat.

“Fair enough. Good thing I can help you!”

Ernesto blinked. “What?” he asked, and Miguel grinned, starting to pace back and forth.

“Yes, it’s perfect! That gringo arrived just at the right time!”

“Wha--”

“Everyone will focus on him! And he can say mass while you learn Latin!”

“I am not going to learn--”

“All right, maybe not that, but you can memorize the stuff you need to say! I did,” the boy cut him off, and tapped his forehead. “It’s all in here. It’s boring, but I can help you!”

Ernesto blinked, taken aback. The notion of keeping up that charade for more than a few days seemed… slightly less insane than it had just a few minutes ago, really. He was a good actor; he had good memory. Maybe he could pull it off, and get to spend the rest of that stupid war hidden away in that small town, eating three meals a day and with very little danger of being caught and hanged. He just needed… a little help.

“You can help me,” he repeated, and raised an eyebrow. “All right. What’s the catch, niño?”

He’d half-expected the boy to play innocent, but he didn’t even bother to; instead, he smiled widely. “I need your help to stop Héctor before he becomes a priest.”

That was just about the last thing he expected to hear. “You need my help to-- what?”

Miguel rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on! He shouldn’t be a priest! He should marry Imelda, everyone knows he likes her!”

“And Imelda is…?”

“Oh, right. You haven’t met her. They call her Sister Gisela now.”

Ernesto could feel the first stab of something that threatened to turn into a huge headache. “You want me get a novice to drop his vows and marry a _nun,_ did I hear that right?”

“She’s not a nun yet! We _also_ have to stop that from happening, by the way.”

“I have to stop him from becoming a priest, her from becoming a nun, and get them married.”

“Yes!” Miguel exclaimed, clearly glad to see he’d caught on. “I mean, you’re the parish priest! Well, the think you are. They will listen to you,” he added, then paused, frowning in thought. “... Well, maybe Héctor is _more_ likely to listen. But you should talk with Sister Sofía! She _also_ thinks they should drop their vows, and Imelda listens to her. Sorta. Kinda. Maybe.”

“I’m sorta, kinda, maybe thinking I should have let the army hang me.”

Miguel made a face. “Being hanged sounds unpleasant.”

All right, so maybe that was exaggerating just a little bit. Ernesto shrugged, conceding the point. “Fine. Let me see if I understood you correctly. You are going to keep this a secret and teach me whatever crap I have to say during Mass while Padre Culo Blanco covers that for time being,” he said, jabbing an index finger against Miguel’s chest before pointing at himself with the thumb. “And in exchange, I convince a priest and a nun--”

“They aren’t _yet_ a priest and a nun.”

“Fine. I convince two novices to drop their holy vows and know each other biblically, _possibly_ within the sacred bond of marriage. Is that it? That’s the deal?”

Miguel seemed just slightly confused. “What does it mean, know each other biblically?”

“How old are you again, niño?”

“Nine.”

“... It means they kiss.”

_“Eeeugh.”_

Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “That’s rich, coming from a self-professed matchmaker,” he joked, but the smile faded quickly. “Miguel. Do you _swear_ you won’t say a word about this?”

“I’ll be silent as a grave,” the kid promised, and as he began quickly suggesting a course of action for his - _their_ \- matchmaking project, Ernesto did his best to listen… and not to think of the terrifying moment when he’d _seriously_ considered blowing a hole in the boy’s head.

* * *

“Juanita doesn’t like that gringo.”

“Juanita doesn’t like anyone.”

“ _I_ don’t like that gringo.”

“You don’t like anyone, either.”

Chicharrón scoffed, and held the rooster in his lap somewhat protectively. “I like Juanita.”

“... Right.”

“ _No one_ likes that gringo, Héctor,” Cheech muttered through the stick in his mouth, and Héctor had to admit he had a point. Most people had put on a polite expression because that’s what you do with a priest, after all… but anyone who knew them - and he would, he’d grown up in those streets - could tell.

It was hard to trust newcomers, those days; Padre Ernesto was already well-liked, despite raising a few brows with that… _interesting_ Mass, but it didn’t mean he was fully trusted. And that man - an American - seemed suspicious from a mile away. Distrust was natural and, really, he wasn’t helping his case at all with his condescending comments on how they handled religious matters, about pagan beliefs to be eradicated, how he was on a mission on God’s behalf to set things right.

Honestly, despite the smile Héctor had pasted on his face, he couldn’t recall anyone going that out of his way to grate on everyone’s nerves since… Gustavo, maybe, back when he’d just arrived at the orphanage and mocked everyone else by insisting that he wasn’t like them, _he_ had a mamá and she would be back to pick him up soon, _just you wait, she’ll be back for me before you know it._

She had never come, and Héctor had felt sorry for him, but all of his attempts at showing friendship were thrown back in his face and thus he’d stopped trying very quickly. This, however, was a priest - someone he should at least _try_ to get on with.

“He’s not _that_ bad,” he muttered, tuning his guitar. To be fair, Father John hadn’t been like _that_ the entire time. He’d told him a few really interesting things about his travels, had been really interested in the charity work the parish did and shown interest in getting involved, and he’d seemed genuinely impressed by what little English Héctor could speak - which, to be entirely honest, wasn’t as good as the man’s slightly shaky Spanish. He’d smiled warmly, corrected his pronunciation, and then even laughed a bit.

“My apologies, I forget myself,” he’d said. “I’m not here for a language lesson - but sometimes it feels good, hearing your language when you’re far from home,” he’d added, and then suddenly excused himself.

Héctor strummed the guitar, a frown creasing his brow. There had been something on the man’s face as he’d spoken those words, there one moment and gone the next: a sort of desperate longing that had made him pause. He remembered seeing that look before, on the faces of other children who talked about parents they would never see again.

Unaware of his thoughts, Cheech was scoffing. “He _is_ that bad. Bad news.”

“Maybe we should give him a chance. Maybe he’s just… well…”

“A pompous white ass.”

“American.”

“That’s what I said.”

Héctor laughed. “Hah! Don’t let him hear you.”

“I _want_ him to hear me.”

“And I would like to change subject,” Héctor said, rolling his eyes. Come to think of it, where was Miguel? After he’d gone off somewhere with Padre Ernesto, he hadn’t seen him aroun--

“Oh, right. Almost forgot. They’re coming to take their stuff tonight.”

The casual comment caused Héctor to wince, and his hand slipped off the guitar strings. “Cheech! Not that loud!”

“And who’s gonna hear us, dead people?” Chicharrón scoffed, but he did him the favor to lower his voice. “It’s all sorted, in the usual coffins, in the usual place. You would know, you moved them. They’ll be gone by morning and that will be it.”

“Until the next message.”

“Until the next message, yes,” Cheech muttered, and scratched Juanita’s head. “Wonder who else gets them. I doubt we’re the only ones.”

Héctor had wondered that from time to time, too, and more. “Do you ever wonder _who_ is it, leaving us instructions?”

“Oh, of course. I thought it was old Alejandro for a while, but then he went six feet under and the notes kept coming. Same handwriting and all,” he said, and shrugged. “Maybe it’s Ceci.”

“Ceci?” Héctor repeated, raising an eyebrow. It seemed… unlikely, that their local seamstress would be the mind behind it all. Of course, you never know; something was slightly off with her, with the amount of clothes for the poor that had suddenly become ‘unmendable’ and disappeared. Ceci had always taken pride in her skill to salvage even the most worn-out rags, and Héctor suspected that some of those clothes were mendable after all, and went to _other_ people who had use for them. Can’t fight a Revolution naked, after all.

“I saw her around here not long before I found the note in the usual place,” Cheech was saying, unaware of his thoughts. “This is not the day to collect donated clothing.”

“She was here to make changes to the robes. They’re too tight for Padre Ernesto.”

“Hmmm. Guess that explains it,” Cheech muttered, and shrugged again. “Well, I got nothing, then. I could be anyo--”

“Héctor! Are you still wasting your time with the old goat?” Gustavo’s voice rang out.

Cheech let out a grumble. “Except this cabrón.”

“... Yes. Except this cabrón,” Héctor muttered, causing the old man to chortle.

"Oh, listen to yourself, _Brother Héctor._ You’ll have to wash your mouth with soap now."

Héctor laughed, and stood. Gustavo was at the low wall between the path and the cemetery, a scowl on his face. "Here you are. Sofía decided to make me her errand boy and--"

" _Sister_ Sofía, you mean."

“I can think of other ways to call her, and none of them is _sister,_ ” Gustavo scoffed. "She says dinner is ready, and that you should dine with Padre Ernesto and Padre Jua-- Father John," he corrected himself quickly, and Héctor had to hold back a chuckle. So, that nickname was catching up already. Father John wasn't going to be pleased, but then again he seemed difficult to please either way.

"You're lucky, no chorizo,” Gustavo was going on. “You should live to see another day."

The remark caused Héctor to scowl. "It was one time," he protested. Really, _one_ time you eat too quickly, _one_ time you get a chorizo stuck in your throat, _one_ time you puke it right back up in front of everyone, and there is some _pendejo_ who'll never let you forget about it.

"And very nearly your last,” Gustavo mocked him, and turned to walk away. Héctor wondered about that; usually, as the sexton, he had most meals at the parish.

“Aren’t you coming?” he called out, gaining himself a scoff and a glare over his shoulder.

“Unlike a certain someone, I have more to do then toying with guitars.”

Héctor rolled his eyes. “Self-important jerk,” he muttered, and headed back to the parish with the guitar over his shoulder.

* * *

Ernesto had never enjoyed killing.

He had done it anyway, of course, and several times. During a battle or an ambush, to finish off wounded enemies afterwards - those were the easiest ones, because it was kill or be killed in one case and a mercy in the other.

But then there had been the _other_ times. The times were men would stand accused of aiding the revolutionaries, found guilty after a joke of a trial, and publicly shot; the times he was picked to be part of the firing squad and made himself go through the motions, the screams and pleas and curses of those witnessing - mothers and wives, sons and daughters and brothers and sisters - ringing in his ears for a long time afterwards.

There had been one time when they’d begun moving on, only to hear the village’s church ringing its bell in a death toll to mourn their dead; their commander had been so infuriated that he’d made them all turn around, had the bellringer dragged out, and shot him point blank in the face. Ernesto hadn’t been the only one to turn on his saddle to vomit in the dirt.

The nightmares had eased after some time, but that bitter taste in the back of his throat would return, unannounced, more often than he’d have liked. He’d tasted it after gunning down Alberto to get away, after ending the dying priest whose cloth he’d taken, and he could taste it now, too. He hadn’t shot Miguel for knowing too much, but the _thought_ had been there and Christ, he needed something strong to wash it away. Except that he could have no such thing, because good old Padre Juan had decided that they shouldn’t have even wine.

“It is Lent, after all. We are meant to give up on such small luxuries. Our Lord certainly had none, alone in the desert as he faced the Devil.”

No, Ernesto had no taste for killing… but the more that gringo talked, the more he felt that could be an exception. Thankfully, Brother Héctor had taken one for the team by engaging with that ass first; it seemed to have backfired, because now he just wouldn’t stop spewing out theological crap and suggesting he could give him English lessons. It was easy to tell Héctor was regretting his decision to start small talk, but Ernesto had absolutely no desire to intervene. The less he had to talk with John Proper Catholicism Johnson, the better.

Really, at that point Héctor just kept nodding with a rather faraway look in his eyes. Was he thinking about this Imelda to keep himself sane? Ernesto sure hoped so, as he hoped he would find the note he had slipped under his door. Miguel had said he’d make sure the other one would find its way in Imelda’s own room. Not precisely the brightest or most original of plans, getting them alone in the same place at night, but they had to start somewhere.

If those two liked each other as Miguel claimed they did, it might just work.

“... As a matter of fact, I never found any of you to be intellectually lacking compared to the white man, save a few exceptions,” the gringo was saying, so very magnanimously. “I do disagree with that school of thought. One cannot help the circumstances of one’s birth, but it is our duty to seek to elevate ourselves and help those less fortunate--”

Ernesto forced himself to let go of the fork. Anything could be turned into a weapon and he was Not Supposed to kill any more priests that week. Or ever, possibly. And well, it looked like he wasn’t the only one who was getting seriously fed up. A few steps away, Sister Sofía - or Sister _Sophie,_ according to the gringo - was holding a frying pan in her hand, eyes shifting from it to Father John and then back again.

Ernesto smiled a bit, and that was when her gaze paused on him. She raised both eyebrows.

 _You can absolve me later,_ she mouthed, and Ernesto bit the inside of his cheek not to laugh.

“... What do you think, Father Ernest?” Father John’s grating voice caused him to recoil and look back to him… and at Héctor, who looked like he’d had his soul sucked out of his body.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you’d like to join Padre Hector and me in the chapel for the evening prayer. Certainly that is not a good habit you have shed along with your Latin, is it?”

Ernesto’s eyes flickered behind him. Sister Sofía raised the frying pan, tilting her head in a mute question. It was funny enough to help him not lose his temper, and he managed to smile as though he meant it. “I would love to, but I prefer to say the evening prayer on my own,” he said. “After some private reflection.”

To his relief, he didn’t insist further; he just wished him and _Sister Sophie_ a good night, and left along with a rather resigned-looking Héctor. Ernesto sighed and leaned back on the chair as soon as the door closed behind them. “God give me patience.”

“I’ve got something better,” Sister Sofía said, and within moments there was a bottle of mass wine on the table, plus a second glass. Ernesto raised an eyebrow, and she shrugged. “What _Padre Juan_ doesn’t know cannot hurt him. As much as I would like to do that at times,” she quipped, pouring wine in his glass, and Ernesto barked out a laugh, taking it.

“Telling me you’d like to harm another member of the clergy, Sister?”

“You can absolve me later,” she smiled, and picked up her own glass. “He’s probably going to be a complete killjoy at Mass. A shame, that,” she added, and smiled, putting a hand on his arm.  “I liked your take on it.”

Ernesto thought back of the moment when he’d thought he had seen her licking her lips while staring at him and wondered, suddenly, if that _hadn’t_ been just his imagination after all.

“... I think I noticed,” he found himself saying, and her laughter as she lifted the glass - the glint in her eyes as she glanced at him as though he were a tasty morsel - confirmed his suspicion. He found he liked that thought; there was something flattering about it. She wasn’t that much to look at, short and thin as a twig in robes that were hardly meant to be flattering, but he hadn’t been with a woman for so, so long.

_You have a cover to keep, no point in risking it. This is not the hill you want to die on, idiota._

But then again, a nun? She had all the more reasons to keep whatever may happen a secret, he thought as she brought the glass to her lips with a smile. Ernesto did the same and finally, as he gulped it down _,_ the taste of bile in the back of his throat began to fade.

* * *

His old Bible was where John had left it, on the small table at his bedside.

Most of his few belongings had yet to be unpacked - he’d simply left them in the small room he’d been offered before Brother Hector had begun showing him around - and he would do that early the next morning. Now he was so tired, he wished for nothing but sleep. But not just yet; with his evening prayers uttered, there was one thing yet to do before he could rest.

_First thing in the morning and last thing in the evening, so that you never forget._

There was a folded, worn-out letter marking the page he was looking for. He held it in one hand, careful not to crease it, and his eyes rested on the one passage he’d underlined, circled, and read so many times. And he read it again now, so he could _never_ forget.

Then, he unfolded the letter. It wasn’t a much longer read than the passage; a few sentences that were like a slammed door. John read each word, folded the sheet of paper again, placed it back on the Bible, and closed it. He kissed its cover, put it down on the table and then - only then - did he reach up to wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand.

It hurt. Twelve years, and it still hurt. Every morning and evening, until he could redeem himself; until he saved enough souls to be deserving of a second chance for his own.

_So that you never forget._

* * *

Getting in the basement of the orphanage was… oddly easy.

It would have been easy either way, truth be told: Héctor had access to the keys of the small door that let to it from outside, and he had taken them before leaving the parish, but as it turned out it wasn’t needed. After going down the stone steps below the road level, he’d found the door was already open. That was… odd, but no odder than the note he had found in his room when he’d returned after the evening prayer with Father John.

_Come at the orphanage’s basement at midnight. It is important. Tell no one._

It was written in uppercase, and he did not recognize the handwriting. He wondered if it may be from the same person who left Cheech the instructions about the weapons and supplies, but he had never seen what the writing in those looked like, so he wasn’t sure.

He’d show Cheech the note and ask the next day; now he had to focus on… whatever that was about.

_Why me, though? Cheech is their man. I only helped him._

A good question, and with nothing anywhere close to an answer. That unnerved him more than the near-complete darkness in the basement; the candle he’d lit gave some light, but the deep shadows it cast only made the place more ominous. But he had been there before as a child, sometimes as punishment and sometimes just to get some time by himself, and he could walk through it with his eyes shut.

What unnerved him the _most_ was the silence. There was no one aside for himself; all he could see was the heap of old furniture, wood to burn in winter, broken things and… what was that, in the back? Héctor moved towards the back of the room where, besides a few shelves with canned food, he could see what looked like a few crates covered with tarp.

Unlike all the rest, that wasn’t covered in dust; it looked out of place, and he wondered--

“Who’s there?”

 _“Eeek!”_ The less than dignified shriek left him just as he dropped the candle, which extinguished itself before it even touched the ground. Still, he was not left in darkness: when he turned he found himself facing someone else who was, too, holding a candle. “... Imelda?”

“Héctor?”

For a moment, they just stared at each other. She looked surprised, and beautiful in the flickering light of the candle, in that moment of stillness and silence as the world slept and it felt as though there was only the two of them awake. In an empty basement. Alone.

_Bad, bad, bad. This is bad._

“I mean--” Héctor cleared his throat. “Sister Gisela,” he said, and she seemed relieved.

“Brother Héctor,” she greeted him back, and stood there as Héctor quickly went to pick up the candle. She held out her own to let him light it up again, and then took a couple of steps back. She was fully dressed in her robe and headdress, and he was wearing his cassock, but somehow the entire situation felt extraordinarily inappropriate. “What are you doing here? This time of the night?” she asked, her voice cautious.

Not knowing how much he could or should tell her, Héctor could have asked the same - but before he could utter a single word there was light, stronger than that cast by their candles, and a man’s voice rang out. “Well, this is more crowded than I was expecting.”

They both winced and turned to see that they were no longer alone. A few steps from them there were a few men, all of them armed. The closest one, carrying an oil lamp, chuckled.

“Well, look at that,” he said, and smiled with a mouth full of crooked teeth before gesturing for the men to lower their guns. “It’s _you._ Nice to finally meet you in person, amigos,” he added, and Héctor knew he wasn’t going to die that night.

* * *

Well, that was turning out to be a really odd night.

Imelda had known something was off the moment she had found the note in her room, clearly slipped in beneath the door, telling her to go down in the basement at midnight and tell no one. She’d figured right away it had to have something to do with the weapons she was keeping there, of course - what else could it be about? - but it was also very, very odd.

Her presence had never been required or requested when it was time for the revolutionaries to come and collect them and, most of all, the note itself was different: the _handwriting_ was different, or at least so it seemed to her. It was hard to tell, since this one was in uppercase and none of the others had been.

It unnerved her, and she wished she could tell Sofía about it, but it was not an option that evening: she was away, taking care of the parish and, if she got her way, of the priest as well. Granted, now that a gringo had gotten there, Padre Ernesto was no longer the one Imelda was most interested in knowing about. While an outsider, and clearly not a very conventional priest, at least Padre Ernesto wasn’t a _foreigner._ An American’s presence there of all places made little sense, and Imelda didn’t like that. Something was up with that man, she could tell.

Maybe, she’d thought, that was the reason why someone wanted to speak to her, and she’d gone down in the basement at midnight, walking through empty and silent halls, not quite knowing what she would find.

Admittedly, Héctor - _Brother_ Héctor - was not among the various options she’d imagined.

"Well, this is awkward, huh? You guys weren't really meant to meet. Safer for everyone if each of you knows as little as possible," the man with the oil lamp - José, he’d called himself, but Imelda suspected that was not his real name - said with another smile as his companions quickly took the weapons and loaded on a small cart they had left outside.

“You…?” both Imelda and Héctor exclaimed, looking at each other and then falling silent.

Imelda was at a loss for words. All of those notes, all along, it had been _Héctor_ of all people? Unaware of the fact Héctor was thinking exactly the same thing - _all of those nose, all along, it had been_ Imelda? - she turned away, Sofía’s words echoing in the back of her mind.

_Oh, I think he’s a better actor than you give him credit for._

“Still, what’s done is done. Thanks for the help,” José was adding, thankfully unaware of her thoughts. “The army is still stretched pretty thin, but some of them are getting closer. We’ll send most of these to our friends up north, but will keep a few as well. Just in case.”

That caused Héctor to stop staring at her with his mouth agape and frown. “Do you think they’ll get to Santa Cecilia? Again?” he asked. The mere thought was enough to make Imelda feel cold; last time the army had been there they had taken men, and they had been able to hide away the boys. Next time, they may not be so lucky; orphans were very convenient in war. No one would fight to keep them… or so the Federales seemed to think.

“Maybe we should keep a few rifles,” Imelda spoke up, causing Héctor to wince and José to raise an eyebrow. “In case they come for the children.”

The man barked out a laugh. “Hah! I like the way you think, Sister, but not to worry. If you’re ever in trouble, we will know. And we will fight,” he promised, then he tilted his head. “So. What is this I heard about a gringo in town… ?”

As Héctor filled him in with what he knew about Father John - which was not much, truth be told, but he seemed to think he was relatively inoffensive, if annoying - and promised to keep an eye on him, Imelda found herself staring at him more intensely than she had in years. In the sharp light of the oil lamp he looked, for the first time, more like a man - a world away from the boy she thought she’d known.

Something was going on, something much bigger than either of them, and they were in it together.


	5. Father John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was humming the Mission Impossible theme to myself while writing a part of this chapter. You’ll know which one.  
> Also, the art in this chapter is by the lovely Senora_Luna!

_Tap, tap, tap._

“Nnnnh.”

“Oh, you’re awake. Good. Get up”

“Five more minutes,” Ernesto mumbled, eyes still shut. There was a sigh, and the tapping of fingers on his forehead resumed. _Tap, tap, tap._

“Get off me, and your can sleep as much as you want. If I’m not up by the time Gustavo arrives, there will be questions. Which we may not want to answer, given that you are a priest and I a bride of Christ.”

Ah, Ernesto thought. Right. That. “Why, is he jealous?” he asked, and she snorted out a laugh. The tapping on his forehead ceased, and there was a light smack.

“Come on, Padre. Get up.”

He did sit up, if with a groan because damn, his back _stung._ Ernesto made a face and reached to rub the back of his neck, searching around amongst crumpled sheets with his other hand. He found the collar quickly enough, and thankfully it was still wearable, as was the cassock he’d dropped on the floor. “Is there any wine left?”

“Oh, plenty of it in the cellar. We have barrels of it,” Sofía - _Sister_ Sofía - said, putting her robes back on. Her hair was cropped short, and she brushed it back with one hand before putting her headdress back on. “You could drink yourself into a stupor every night and there would still be more than enough left for Mass.”

“Ah. Good,” Ernesto muttered, scratching his cheek. It already felt scratchy with stubble, and he would have to shave again. It was ridiculous, how quickly his facial hair grew if he allowed it to. A few days without a razor at hand, and he’d have a full beard that was uncomfortably similar to that of his old man, aging him by a decade.

Shaving was a luxury in the barracks, let alone while on the move, and in the end he’d given it up entirely. For most of his time in the army, he’d had a beard… and often clipped hair as well, because lice was a serious issue. He’d hated it, but now he could see the bright side: it would make it more difficult for him to be recognized in case his old comrades came to Santa Cecilia.

And really, he hoped it would never come to that. He was beginning to sort of like it where he was; he had food, shelter, no need to march until exhaustion or risk is neck or shoot defenseless civilians... and now there was some female company as well, if from a very unexpected source. For a while the previous evening - more accurately, the moment Sister Sofía had decided to sit on his lap - he’d felt very, very smug.

Sure, _some_ of that smugness over his own charm had evaporated when he’d realized he clearly wasn’t the first one. He’d actually worried after they’d reached his room, pausing and pulling back to tell her to stop him if it hurt, and as a response… she’d laughed in his face.

And laughed. And _laughed._ And then laughed some more.

“... Really now?”

“--hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha--”

“You’re welcome to stop any time this year.”

_“--hahahahahahahaha--”_

“Fine! _Fine!_ I get the message!”

It had been annoying, but well worth it. That entire situation was well worth all the annoyances - the stuck-up gringo, the boring confessions, some Latin to parrot and a weird kid who wanted him to play matchmaker. Which reminded him he needed to find out if anything had come out of their half-assed idea the previous night. Ernesto quickly put his cassock back on and turned to Sofía, who was smoothing down her robes and seemed the very image of purity.

_But you should talk with Sister Sofía,_ Miguel had said. _She also thinks they should drop their vows, and Imelda listens to her._

He’d been hesitant to involve a nun then, but now - after getting to know her biblically as well - it was much easier to think he might find an ally there. Not that he really gave a damn whether or not they would succeed; he did like Brother Héctor, despite knowing him little all things considered, but he thought marriage to be just as much of a cage as clergy life. Still, in order to keep Miguel silent, he had to at least look like he was trying.

He wouldn’t allow himself to think of the other way he could go about keeping him silent. He didn’t want that taste of bile in the back of his throat again.

“So, uh, Sister. I heard something about a novice, one Imeld-- Sister Gisela.”

“Oh?” Sofía turned to glance at him, and tilted her head. Could have been the portrait of innocence, if not for the sudden sharpness in her eyes. They were an unusual dark green; he hadn’t noticed as much before. “And what have you heard?”

“That she might have… affection for a man.”

“Really now.”

“Who may or may not be also be on the verge of becoming a man of church.”

“Sounds scandalous.”

“According to a certain altar boy, you are very much aware of it.”

A small smile curled her lips, cracking the mask. “Oh, I see. Has Miguel turned to you for help?”

“... You could say that. According to him, you share his frustration.”

A roll of the eyes, and the careful mask was down. “Oh, you bet I do. Héctor worships the ground she walks on, but doesn’t seem to think he’s worthy. And Imelda? Anyone with half a brain can tell she reciprocates, but she’s so frustratingly _stubborn_ about it - like she really thinks Héctor is called to be a priest and she’d ruin everything. You have no idea how many times I have tried talking some sense into her head, but--”

There was a sound outside, of a door opening and closing, and steps down the hallway. It caused them both to still, and when Ernesto spoke again his voice was low. “Gustavo?”

“The gringo. We would have heard Gustavo coming from outside and Héctor sleeps further down,” Sofía muttered, and frowned. “A foreigner. I wonder what he’s doing here.”

“Being a pain in the ass,” Ernesto muttered, and she chuckled.

“We’ll talk about the lovebirds later. Now join him in the chapel. Make sure he stays for a while.”

Ernesto made a face. “Do I _have_ to?”

“I’d rather he doesn’t see me coming out of your room. Or in this hallway at all,” she said. It was a good point, and he stepped out of the room first, gesturing for her to come out once he saw the way was clear. She nodded while he locked the door, and left without another word.

Maybe he should have told her something about the previous night - the usual crap on how good it had been and how he hoped there would be a next time - but then again she _had_ laughed in his face, and there was nothing _usual_ about the situation in the first place. So in the end Ernesto just sighed and headed to the chapel without turning back.

And failed to see Sister Sofía trying Father John’s door, finding it open, and slipping inside.

* * *

John Johnson had always found peace in praying.

Back when he’d been young - back home, a traitorous little voice whispered in the back of his mind each time and oh it _hurt_ \- he’d enjoyed it as a moment of quiet reflection after a day spent studying, mentoring his younger siblings or helping his father at the church.

The Pastor’s son. So intelligent, so polite, so knowledgeable and ready to help; everyone could easily predict a bright future for him, see him taking his father’s stead as the backbone of their small community one day - the kind of life he’d been preparing to from the cradle.

And _yet._

For a time, prayer was no longer that quiet moment it used to be; it had been a cry for help and forgiveness. He had been so lost, then. Now he was on the right path, or so he hoped, and prayer was once again balm to the soul.

As long as he was allowed to do it without interruption, that was.

“Oh, Padre Juan. Fancy meeting you here.”

Father Ernest’s voice rang out in the chapel just moments before John knelt, and it took all of his willpower not to roll his eyes - something about that man grated him horribly, but it was still no appropriate behavior to hold in church. Plus, he had made a vow of patience.

“A chapel is hardly a surprising place to meet a fellow man of the cloth, Father Ernest,” he said, perhaps more pointedly than he should have, and turned to find he was closer than he’d anticipated. He instinctively stepped back, and even so he had to tilt his head to look up at him. He wondered if he’d just done that on purpose, then chased the thought away.

No, he shouldn’t let first impressions cloud his judgment. The man made a poor priest, clearly, but it was no reason to find wrong in everything he did or said. They had started out with the wrong foot, but in order to accomplish his mission, John would need to cooperate with him.

“I was about to start the day with the Lord’s prayer,” he finally said. “Would you like to join?”

“Oh. Yes. Sure. That’s why I’m here.”

John frowned. “Have you not slept well?” he asked. There were dark shadows under Father Ernest’s eyes that almost, but not quite, matched his own. The other man shook his head.

“Not much, but I’m well,” he said, and smiled. “Better than I’ve been in a while. I’m looking forward to listen to you at Mass.”

Well, John supposed that if anything he was willing to learn. “Thank you for allowing me as much,” he said with a nod. After all, however lacking, he was the local parish priest and had no obligation whatsoever to let someone else lead mass - especially during Lent. “I know it is unusual for a visiting priest, but I believe it will be beneficial. As the founder of my order said, todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina,” he added, reaching to grab the crucifix at his neck.

_Any means to find the divine will._

Father Ernest seemed to mull it over for a moment before smiling. For a moment, he looked genuinely delighted at his words. It was… not a reaction John often got that side of the border. Or anywhere, really.

“Ignacio de Loyola,” he said. “You’re a Jesuit, then?”

“Yes. Yourself…?”

“Uh… Franciscan,” Father Ernest said. Not overly surprising - John had always found Franciscans to be more _lax_ in some ways, although never to the degree he had witnessed the previous day - but he had no time to remark on that before Father Ernest spoke again.

“I find a lot of wisdom in the words of your founder,” he said, and smiled again. _“Todo modo.”_

_Any means._

Something about the tone as he said as much felt… not quite unsettling, but not especially reassuring either. He truly realized, for the first time, how much taller and broader than him he was. “Para… para buscar la voluntad divina,” John finished, clutching his crucifix tighter.

“Of course, Padre Juan. Divine will is paramount,” Father Ernest said smoothly. Suddenly, John felt rather stupid for finding anything sinister in his voice only moments earlier.

“Now, shall we pray?” he suggested, and knelt before the cross, joining his hands. Father Ernest did the same next to him. “Do you wish to lead?”

“... Qué?”

“The Lord’s prayer.”

“Ah. Are we doing this aloud?”

“Is that an issue?”

“No, no, not at all. Which… which one again?”

John felt suddenly very, very tired. “... Please tell me you didn’t forget the Lord’s prayer.”

“No, no. I. I know. The prayer,” Father Ernest muttered. “Actually, I know so many it get… confusing, you know. Knowing _so many_ prayers. Which one do you mean again?”

_Lord, give me strength._

“Pater Noster.”

“Oooh, that. Sure. Of course. Padre nuestro que estás en los--”

_“Ahem.”_

“... Right. In Latin.”

“If you don’t min--”

The sound of a door opening cut him off, and he turned to see Brother Hector in the doorway. He, too, looked rather tired - although he straightened up when he spotted them. Seeing him made John feel slightly better: he was a bright young man and, he’d gathered during their conversation, rather knowledgeable as well. He was… misguided on some matters, as most people in that country were, but it was nothing some good teachings couldn’t fix.

Perhaps Father Ernest would turn out to be quite hopeless, but the young novice showed promise and John was going to do his best to mentor him, to make him the best priest he could be so that he could lead his people to the right path of the Catholic--

“Brother Héctor!” Father Ernest exclaimed, his voice entirely too loud for a chapel. John opened his voice to protest, tell him to keep his voice low before the Lord, but before he could force out a single word he did something worse: he suddenly placed an arm around his shoulders, causing him to stiffen. God have mercy, did people around there have no concept _whatsoever_ of what was appropriate or not?

Unaware of his thoughts, Father Ernest was still talking. “Mind to join us? I was just about to lead the Lord's prayer, but if you'd like to do it instead…”

“I believe I’ll pray in my room,” John said quickly, tearing himself away from Father Ernest’s grasp. He needed his Bible, needed it _now,_ and he had left it at is bedside. He stood, and nodded at Brother Hector. “I need to collect my thoughts before Mass,” he added.

He had a responsibility towards that parish now, and he did not take it lightly. “I’ll see you both,” he added, and  left quickly, without turning back to see the perplexed looks that gained him.

* * *

Well, now _that_ was a disappointment. Not a Gustavo level one, but a disappointment nonetheless.

All right, so she hadn’t really expected the Very Suspicious Gringo to leave anything compromising out in plain sight for anyone who walked in - with the door unlocked, to boot - but she’d figured the search would be worth a try.

It had been a brief search, sure enough. There was a journal on the desk, written entirely in Latin, that had turned out to be full of theological reflections and notes on how his mission to evangelize Mexico - oh, did she regret not hitting him over the head with that frying pan now - and little else.

She’d found a few pictures of saints, a rosary, and of course a Bible. His clothes were few, nearly folded into the chest drawer. When she’d searched through it she had found something hidden there all right - a small whip of brown leather and ropes, which she dropped right away.

So, _Padre Juan_ was into self-flagellation. How charming, she thought, wiping her hand on her robe without thinking before she closed the drawer. A juicy bit of gossip, but nothing of use.

Sofía huffed, looking around the small room - and paused when her gaze fell on the Bible on the small bedside table. It looked very old, the cover beginning to come off in places, and it wouldn’t have held her interest at all if she hadn’t spotted something sticking out from its pages - a piece of paper.

More out of curiosity than anything else - it may very well be a bookmark, for all she knew - she went to the Bible, and slipped the piece of paper out of it to have a look. It was in… English? She could only assume it was, since it clearly wasn’t Spanish or Latin. It looked like letter, and an old one: written on 24 December 1904, according to the date on top. It was the only thing Sofía could confidently read. The handwriting was neat, the signature little more than a scribble.

For a moment, Sofía considered memorizing it - she always had a good memory - and writing it down later, to find someone who could understand some English and tell her what the letter read; no easy task in Santa Cecilia, but it may be worth a try. But suddenly there was noise, steps outside, and all she could think was that she had to hide; she was there to cook and clean the communal spaces, but under no circumstances should she be found in a priest’s room.

And she suspected that, with Padre Juan, there would be no seducing her way out of trouble.

Sofía opened the Bible, stuck the letter back in, and moved in the corner behind the door as quickly as possible. It wasn’t the most brilliant of hiding places, but she was out of other options - and she got there just on time. As soon as her back pressed against the wall, the door opened and someone - Padre Juan, clearly - stepped in.

Sofía held her breath, listening to his footsteps; staring at the door an inch away from her face, fully aware that she’d be in plain sight should he push the door closed, she heard him stopping, picking up something… then there was an audible gasp, the sound of pages being flipping fast.

_The letter. He’s looking for the letter._

The sound paused; there was a long exhale, a sigh of relief… and then, for what felt like a long time, silence - followed by the creaking of floorboards. Sofía dared peer past the door to see Padre Juan kneeling before the bed in prayer, giving her his back and clutching something - the Bible? - to his chest. The door was still open; if she was to get out unnoticed, that was the moment to do it.

It was a risk, but one she had to take, and thankfully it paid off; no boards creaked and he didn’t even look up as she slipped out of his room and down the hallway, to tend to her duties.

He did not show up for breakfast and, when she tried the door again later that day, she found it locked.

* * *

“... You look tired, Brother Héctor. Did you not sleep well?”

The perfectly innocent remark - Ernesto had always been good at making innocent-sounding remarks - caused Héctor to recoil the way only a guilty man would, and the Lord's prayer to trail off. He recovered quickly enough for Ernesto to be mildly impressed, but he had definitely winced, and Ernesto thought that maybe something had come out of that... admittedly half-assed plan to make him and this Imelda meet at night.

Shame that 'did you score?' was probably not an acceptable question from one member of the clergy to another, but there were other ways.

"Oh, I was up for a while to... to write. I had an idea for a song that just wouldn't go away."

... All right, so that was not the excuse Ernesto had expected. "You write songs?"

Héctor gave a sheepish smile, and only much, much later would Ernesto realize he had picked the subject on purpose to divert his attention. "I must confess, I have a weakness for secular music, much like yourself," he said. "I was really impressed and I think Miguel was somewhat starstruck. You sing and play like a mariachi."

_Because I am one,_ Ernesto thought, and something in his chest ached. "Oh, I dreamed of being one as a boy," he said instead. "But you know, when--"  
_the goddamn Federal Army_  
"-- God calls you, you cannot deny that call,” Ernesto finished, and made a face before standing, not even caring that they hadn’t finished the prayer. “Trust me, I tried.”

Héctor laughed a bit and stood as well, clearly not really giving a damn about finishing the prayer himself. “I would have liked to be a musician, too. But… my help is needed here. I still enjoy music, though - Cheech taught me everything I know.”

“And you’re teaching Miguel.”

“Yes. And he’s a good pupil,” Héctor said. The fondness in his voice was impossible to miss. “Would you like to join us again some other time?”

Oh, _yes._ Focused as he was on getting through his days in the army, Ernesto hadn’t had time to think much about music. Now, however, he’d jump at any chance to play again. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed it, letting his fingers dance on a guitar’s strings and singing loudly for all to hear. Fine, he probably wouldn’t precisely be getting a crowd as public, but it was better than nothing at all.

“I’d love to,” he said. “If you let me hear some of your songs. Unless it’s hymns, or…?”

A laugh. “Oh, no. I wrote a few hymns for the choir, but I find inspiration in more mundane things. I could never really grow out of it.”

“You shouldn’t!” Ernesto blurted out, only to mentally kick himself when Héctor blinked at him in surprise. “I mean… it is a gift, writing songs. I could never manage,” he added.

“I’m sure it can be that ba--”

“Last time I tried it was for a girl and I got smacked in the mouth,” Ernesto said, and put a hand to his chest, clutching the fabric. “The heartbreak was such, I decided to take the holy vows.”

Héctor made a noticeable effort not to laugh. “I don’t believe it for a moment.”

“That I’m that bad, or that it’s the reason why I took the cloth?”

“Both.”

“All right, _one_ of them is a lie,” Ernesto admitted, putting a hand on his shoulder. He was starting to like that guy, he truly was. Whether this Imelda was his soul mate or not, he could see what Miguel meant when he said he’d be wasted as a priest. He was good fun. "Can we forget about that, or am I expected to confess? Who'd confess the parish priest, anyway?"

Héctor grinned. "Padre Juan, clearly," he said, and they both cackled.

"That sounds like a nightmare. I felt so bad for you when you got roped into his ramblings."

"Not bad enough to intervene. Apparently I am his pet project now. He’s going to make me a _proper_ servant of the Catholic Church and whatnot."

_Oh, no, Juan. Don’t even think of it for a second. Not on my watch._

“... Is he now,” Ernesto muttered, and Héctor nodded with a grimace.

“I shudder to think what he’s going to say at Mass,” Héctor said, and he did, in fact, shudder.

“How to hold a _proper_ one, I assume,” Ernesto muttered, rolling his eyes.

“I found your take on it… well, unconventional, but engaging. The kids had fun, which is new. I have no idea why Miguel suggested the gringo should take over. I'll ask him when I see--"

_Nope. Don't._

"I'm sure the boy meant well," he said quickly. "He saw a tense situation and tried to defuse it."

Thankfully, Héctor seemed to accept that explanation. "Heh. Fair enough. But it's not like it would have come to blows in the middle of the church," he laughed, and Ernesto shrugged.

“Good that we didn’t find out. Maybe Padre Juan won’t make it _too_ boring,” he added. Héctor raised an eyebrow, and Ernesto shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to be optimistic, does it?”

“Heh. I guess not,” Héctor conceded, and turned to leave. “I should go and get ready now.”

… Oh, wait. He’d almost forgotten the _one_ thing he was supposed to tell him. “Brother Héctor?” Ernesto called after him, and he paused at the doorway, turning back to glance at him.

“Yes?”

_You’re the parish priest, so he’ll turn to you for advice and confession and whatnot,_ Miguel had said. _You just need to give him… a little push. The right sort of advice, you know?_

"... If you ever need anything - any sort of advice - don't hesitate to let me know," Ernesto said slowly, and he was almost positive he'd seen Héctor pausing, as though unsure. So, there was something that he wasn't telling him about, and with some luck it had something to do with this Imelda.

"I'll keep it well in mind, Padre," Héctor replied, and left the chapel just a little more quickly than it would have been strictly necessary.

* * *

“... Is the gringo really going to say Mass?”

“It looks like it.”

“God help us. Imelda, do you think-- Imelda?”

“You should be calling me Sister Gisela,” Imelda mumbled, reaching up to rub her eyes as she sat up straight on the pew. Before them, the church was beginning to fill up.

“Are you all right? You look--”

“Did something chew you and spit you out? Sorry, sorry, may I-- come on, got to sit next to Imelda, move it.”

Imelda smiled faintly as Sofía sat between her and María Fernanda, meaningfully glancing at her. “I didn’t sleep very well, no,” Imelda said before she could ask. It wasn’t even a lie. “Did you find out anything about Padre Ernesto?”

Around them, a few sisters shifted closer to listen. Sofía smiled brightly.

“Yes. First off, his flesh is weak.”

“... Go figure,” Imelda muttered. It was very far from a surprise, although she hadn’t expected Sofía to get to that point _so_ quickly.

“And…?” Sister Luciana urged. Sofía seemed to think about it for a few moments.

“Average,” she finally said. “But I see potential for improvement.”

“Oh.”

“Did you find out anything _relevant_ to--”

“By _average,_ what do you exactly--”

“Are we really having this conversa--”

“What is going on here?” a very familiar voice boomed, causing them all to fall silent and look up. Madre Gregoria easily towered over all of them… and over most men, really. She crossed her arms, her mouth a thin line. “This is a moment for reflection, not for foolish chatter.”

“Oh, we were just talking about striving to improve oneself,” Sofía said, all sweetness and light. It wasn’t nearly enough to fool Madre Gregoria, but as always she had no proof… and no intention to get in any trouble with Sofía’s parents, who just so happened to be generous donors in those hard times. So, in the end, he just scoffed and told them to keep quiet before walking off, calling for Sister Luciana and María Fernanda to follow and help with the incense.

Once alone on the pew, she and Imelda kept quiet for precisely thirty seconds. “Nothing else?”

“Well, on a scale from one to ten--”

“Sofía.”

“Heh. No, didn’t really notice anything unusual. A bit loose in the way of morals, but who am I to judge?” she sighed, and it made Imelda smile a bit. “Back to important things, is _it_ all gone?”

The question caused Imelda to pause, pondering how much should she say to her - how much would be safe to tell her. She knew Sofía could be trusted, but on the other hand José had made it clear that the fewer people she spoke to, the better.

“We’d like to say all the people on our side are too steadfast to betray us, but it would be a dangerous lie,” he’d said. “Torture can make anyone crack, in the end. There is no shame in that - anyone who says otherwise never went through it. We hope it will never be needed, but… the fewer know, the better it is.”

Slowly, Imelda nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I went to check this morning, and it is all gone. But… I think we should keep an eye on the gringo, too.”

“I’m on it. I searched his room this morning.”

“Already?”

“... _Without_ him in it, thank you so very much.”

“Oh, thank God. Did you find anything?”

“A letter that seems rather important to him, but it’s in English and very old - written some ten years ago. I doubt it’s relevant.”

“I see.” Imelda paused as she watched Héctor walking by to get to the organ. He glanced her way, and their gazes met for a moment before Imelda bit her lower lip and looked down as Héctor walked faster past the pews, his nervousness painfully obvious.

“... Is there something you’re not telling--” Sofía began, only to trail off when Imelda shoved the hymn booklet in her hands. She didn’t say anything else, but Imelda felt her gaze on her throughout the entire function.

* * *

Mass was boring enough to make Miguel regret, several times over, suggesting that Padre Juan should take over - no matter how necessary it was at the moment.

It hadn't been that different from how it used to be with Padre Edmundo: Latin no one but the clergy understood, chanting, more Latin, choir, Latin. From his vantage point, Miguel could see several children beginning to nod off... just as they used to. Same old, same old.

Until the Homily, of course. At least that was in Spanish, because there is no point to an Homily no one understands, but it didn't make it any better; there was only so much of the gringo's broken Spanish Miguel could stand... and he was quickly losing count of how many times he'd talked about pagan fetishes and _proper_ Catholicism. By the time Mass had ended and everyone had left, there were none of the smiles or excited chattering of the previous day.

"I think he said 'blasphemy' fourteen times, 'brimstone’ seven--"

"Eight."

"You sure? I counted nine."

Miguel shrugged. “Could be. I think I zoned out at one point,” he said, and Héctor ruffled his hair.

“You and I both, muchacho.”

There was a chuckle, and Ernesto took another sip of wine. Beside him, Héctor was halfway through his glass; Sister Sofía had emptied hers in one go. Miguel was pretty impressed and really, really curious to find out what mass wine tasted like. He had never tried any, not even in church, because he was still a few months away from his First Communion.

He wasn't usually allowed there after Mass - after taking his altar boy robes off he was supposed to go out, in the church's courtyard in the back, to play with the other children - but 'Padre' Ernesto had no objections and so there he was, listening to three adults badmouthing a fellow member of the clergy. He was having a blast, really... until Héctor suddenly sighed and stood, leaving his half-finished glass on the table.

“I should go outside and check on the kids before they drive the sisters up the wall," he said, and made a face. "And make sure Padre Juan doesn't traumatize any of them. Are you coming, Miguel?”

“No,” both Miguel and Ernesto said quickly, causing Héctor to blink in confusion.

“I mean-- Padre Ernesto asked me to stay so that he could, uh..."

“Teach him another song," Ernesto finished, and smiled. "A pity you can't stay longer, Brother Héctor - but later, surely...?"

Héctor smiled. "Of course, I'd love to. I'll see you later, Padre. See you, Miguel. Sister Sofía.”

“Brother Héctor," Sofía returned the smile, nodding, and had the good grace to wait until his steps had faded before she went to shut the door and turned around to face them. “All right,” she said, crossing her arms. “I think Imelda is hiding something. She looks like she hasn't slept a minute last night and so does he. Do you have anything to do with it?”

Miguel grinned. “Maaaybe,” he said, and glanced at Héctor’s glass. "Can I have some of that?"

"Sure," Ernesto replied, sliding the glass of mass wine across the table.

"Absolutely not," Sofía spoke up, taking the glass away.

Miguel frowned - _“Aw, come on!”_ \- while Ernesto rolled his eyes. “Some wine isn’t going to kill him, you know?”

“I’m sure it isn’t, but the Mother Superior can clock the smell of wine from a mile away, and it would land the muchacho in trouble,” she said with a shrug, and downed the rest of the glass’ contents.

“Didn’t you just say--”

“She gave up on me long ago. Now, Miguel. What did you do?”

“Well, we wrote two messages…”

“It was my idea,” Ernesto interjected.

“Hey! It was not!” Miguel protested, and turned back to Sofía. He was aware, vaguely, of how Ernesto had tensed, but of course he had no reason to. It wasn’t like he was going to spill his secret like that - he needed him to _stay_ the parish priest. “So, uh, he _agrees_ that Héctor shouldn’t be a priest, right? And I had this idea to write two letters…”

Explaining what they had done took little, and by the time he was done Sofía’s grin was so wide it seemed to split her face in two. “This is the dumbest plan I ever heard, Miguel.”

“But dumb enough to work!”

“Oh, possibly. They definitely are hiding something.”

“So you think they did meet?”

“I’d bet my right hand on it.”

“Do you think they knew each other biblically?” Miguel asked, only to blink when Sister Sofía very nearly dropped the glass.

“Wha-- _Padre Ernesto,_ what did you--”

“Kissing!” Ernesto exclaimed quickly, putting an arm around Miguel’s shoulders with a laugh that sounded just slightly forced. “He’s asking if you think they kissed!”

Sister Sofía narrowed her eyes at him, but seemed convinced at Miguel’s confused expression. He was beginning to think that Ernesto hadn’t told him the real meaning of that phrase, and at that point he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“... Right. Of course. Well, it’s hard to tell if they _kissed,_ but being optimistic never hurt anyone.”

“Did Imelda say anything?” Miguel asked, and Sister Sofía shook her head.

“No, you know how tight-lipped she can be. I’ll see what I can get out of her, I suppose.”

“Right! And I’ll ask Héct-- what’s so funny?” Miguel protested when Ernesto snickered.

“Sorry, muchacho, but you’d be subtle as a hammer to the teeth. Let me find that out,” he said, and shrugged. “He’s going to come for confession, sooner or later, and somehow I doubt he'd pick Padre Juan as his confessor.”

Oh, Miguel thought. Good point. “And you’ll tell us how that goes?”

“The secret of confession is sacred, Miguel,” Ernesto said, and laughed when they both raised an eyebrow at him. “Heh. Yes, yes. I’ll tell you,” he promised. Sister Sofía crossed her arms.

“I’ve got to admit, I didn’t think I’d see the day a priest would do his utmost to get a novice to renounce his vows before even taking them,” she said. Miguel glanced at Ernesto with some alarm to see he was smiling back, looking perfectly at ease.

“Oh,” he said. “I am a peculiar priest. And plus, this is _personal_ now.”

“Is it?”

Ernesto shrugged. “Apparently, Padre Juan wants to make him his pupil. Take him under his wing, make him into a _proper_ priest like himself,” he added, causing Sister Sofía to roll her eyes.

“Ugh. Gringos.”

Miguel made a face. “Héctor would _never_ be like that,” he said. The mere thought was absurd; Héctor was fun, and wanted other people to be happy, too. Padre Ju-- Father John seemed to have had all the joy sucked out of him, and seemed to be doing his utmost to suck it out of others too.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t, but can you imagine the look on that gringo’s face when his pet project leaves the Church entirely, and with a nun?” Ernesto added. He grinned, lifting his glass. “Don’t know about you, but I’d love to see it, I _will._ Salud,” he added, and emptied the glass in one go.

* * *

“Sister Gisela. May I have a word?”

Without taking her eyes off a few children, who were taking turns on a makeshift swing hanging from the only, rickety tree in the yard, Imelda nodded. “Of course. Walk with me."

They walked only a short distance away, still well within sight but far enough to be certain no one would overhear their conversation. Héctor waved at a couple of kids, trying to hide his nervousness at the closeness. “So, uhm… all’s well, right?”

“No one has noticed anything,” Imelda said, a bit stiffly. “But you need to be more careful.”

“Huh? Did I do something wrong?”

“This morning, as you walked past--” Imelda paused, and shook her head. “Never mind. All is well. But what José said, about keeping an eye on the gringo…”

“Oh, that will be easy. He decided he’s going to teach me English. And proper Catholicism.”

“Por Dios, what does he think you went to seminary for?”

“Ah, but was it a _proper_ seminary? We’re so clearly doing it _wrong_ this side of the border, with  our _pagan fetishes_ and all,” Héctor muttered in a terrible imitation of Father John’s odd accent, and it took him an effort to hold back a huge, goofy grin when he saw her lips quirking upwards.

“Heh. I see. But we could take advantage of it.”

“So I can keep a close eye on him?”

“And learn some English.”

“... That’s weirdly specific.”

“He keeps a letter in his Bible. Don’t ask me how I know it,” Imelda said, and stopped walking to look up at him. She looked thoughtful. “It is old, and probably of no relevance, but you never know. If you could find a way to read it, it might be of help or at least put my mind at ease.”

“Maybe he’s harmless, if annoying. There is no love lost between the United States and Huerta. Last I heard, they still refused to recognize his government.”

“His country can’t be trusted and neither can he,” Imelda said, and something flashed in her eyes like fire. She looked even more beautiful, and Héctor made a very conscious effort not to let his mouth hang open. “I will not take risks. The Federales almost took my brothers once already.”

Héctor had heard of it, of course; how the army had been there the previous year, taken men and even a few boys, and then left. He had been away at the time and it had hurt, not finding some of the familiar faces he’d always seen growing up. Óscar and Felipe had ran to the cemetery, and Cheech had hidden them in caskets - empty ones, he’d specified - until they had left.

“They almost had them,” Imelda was saying; her voice trembled for just a moment, and then it was iron. Héctor wondered what it had to be like, having a sister - a _family_ \- who loves you that much. It was something he had never experienced and, in moments like that, it hurt. “But they did not, and they _will_ not. The day they try again will be their last.”

Héctor caught himself just on time before he reached to take her hand. Instead, he forced himself to think of something else - and the first thing to come to his mind was that of Miguel, who was only a child but old enough to old a gun, if so the army chose. The mere thought made his blood run cold, and it steeled his resolve. He may not have any blood family to protect, but neither did Miguel and many other kids, and he was in it for them.

“Of course not. I’ll help you,” Héctor promised, and very nearly jumped out of his skin when Imelda suddenly reached to grab his hand, and squeezed it.

“Gracias. You’re a good man,” she said, very quietly, before she turned to walk away - leaving Héctor on his own, speechless and suddenly feeling very, very warm.

* * *

“Ernesto de la Cruz.”

The name rang out through a plaza so silent that one could have heard a pin drop. Not that it was empty, far from it; there was the firing squad, there were soldiers all around keeping friends and families of the condemned at the outskirts; there were the men themselves - standing still, hands tied behind their backs and blindfolded.

And, standing before them, there was Santiago.

“I am looking for a man called Ernesto de la Cruz,” he spoke again, his voice rising in the surreal silence as he addressed both the condemned men and the crowd. “A deserter who murdered a comrade in cold blood. If he joined your ranks, or has sought refuge here, speak now. Give him up, and we might spare you. I’ll vouch for you.”

Silence. Santiago clenched his fists, the memory - Beto lying face down, his blood soaking through the sand, carrion birds circling him - flashing before his eyes again. The letter he had to write to his best friend’s mother, to tell her what had become of her only son. When he spoke again, he was unable to keep fury out of his voice.

“He is a traitor, and he must hang!” he snapped, and stepped closer to the men lined up. He snatched the blindfold off the closest one’s face, and stared straight in his eyes. The man, who couldn’t be a day older than twenty, glared back at him. “He will turn on you as he turned on us. He has no more honor than a coyote. He serves no cause but his own. If he’s here, _give him to us._ ”

In the deafening silence, the man scoffed.

“We have no clue who this man is. He’s not among us and if he were, he’d be hailed a hero,” the man snapped, and bared his teeth in what was more a snarl than smile. “Shooting Federales is like culling snakes. May our Lady of Guadalupe protect him, so he can kill _more_ of you.”

It took all of Santiago’s willpower not to strike him there and then, his grip on the blindfold tightening for a moment before he forced himself to slacken it, letting the piece of cloth fall on the ground. If that man so wanted to gloat, let him. Let him _see_ the rifles that would end him.

_He is not here. Someone would have given him up otherwise - the life of an outsider for that of their own is a too sweet bargain. I’m wasting my time._

“... Pray, then,” Santiago finally said, his fury barely in check. “You have few precious moment to do so before you’re shot as the dogs you are.” With a scoff, he turned away and walked thought the plaza, past the firing squad awaiting the order. He didn’t break his stride. “Kill them all.”

A nod, and the officer in charge of the firing squad shouted. “Ready!”

At once, the surreal silence broke. There were cries, curses, pleas from the gathered people; there were scuffles as a few of them tried and failed to get through the soldiers holding them back, away from the firing squad and the condemned men.

“Aim!”

Santiago didn’t turn back to look; nothing about that town or its people was of any interest to him. They would leave it at sundown, keep moving, keep fighting. He’d keep looking, and once he finally found what he was looking for--

_“Fire!”_

The bangs were deafening, and even so their were drowned out by what sounded like one single, mournful cry - dozens of people screaming at once - but Santiago found he didn’t care. All he could think was that when Beto had died, after that one gunshot had rang out, no cries or tears had followed. But it was all right; he would put a remedy to that.

Ernesto de la Cruz would die, and he would die _screaming._


	6. Divine Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know you’re a complete dick when two novices and a fake priest show at your doorstep to beat the crap out of you.  
> Art is by Elletoria (first pic) and Senora_Luna (second pic)!

It didn’t take too long for things to settle into a routine.

Miguel had known no one would question the altar boy spending a lot of time with the parish priest – after all, they assumed he’d taken him under his wing to share teachings and whatnot; just the opposite of what was going on – but he had feared Héctor would say something about it. Along with the fact he was spending a lot of time with Padre Ju-- Father John, because now for some reason he wanted to learn _English,_ it drastically reduced the amount of time they got to spend together.

And instead, he hadn’t said anything. They still met up often to play and sing, and Ernesto joined them – something the congregation had been surprised to find out at first, but hadn’t argued against – but Héctor’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. It was like he hadn’t even noticed how little time Miguel actually spent with him now, and it stung a bit… but it was for the best.

As long as that _did_ mean he was thinking about Imelda, which he wasn’t entirely sure of.

“Are you sure he said nothing about her at all?”

“No, muchacho. If he had, I would have remembered to tell you. You ask something like four times a day,” Ernest muttered, flipping through the pages of the book. Miguel had to admit he was impressed by how good his memory was, how easily he memorized and repeated words he didn’t understand. It had taken Miguel a year as the altar boy to learn everything at heart; Ernesto was already almost there, and it had only been a couple of weeks.

“Not even in confession?”

“No. I’m pretty sure I would have recognized his voice, and plus no one I heard from lately confessed to anything nearly as saucy as wanting to bang a nun.”

Miguel blinked. “… Why would he want to shoot her?” he asked, and Ernesto gave a guffawing laugh.

“Hah! Sorry, kid, I forget-- er. I mean, no one has confessed to anything nearly as saucy as wishing to marry a nun. Though you wouldn’t believe the amount of chicken-stealing that goes on in this town.”

That made Miguel chuckle. “Confession should be a secret.”

“I’m not naming any names. I don’t get to see whoever is confessing, remember?”

“Still!”

“For the record, one of the sisters stole some candy that was meant for you at the orphanage.”

“What??”

“Do what you will with this information. I made her say twenty Hail Mary. If it helps, she felt bad.”

“As she should!” Miguel protested. It was pretty rare for them to get any candy at all; that someone would take it from them was a horrible injustice. Ernesto seemed to notice his scowl, and pushed the almost empty glass of wine over to him on the table.

“Come on, have a sip. Won’t tell if you don’t.”

Well, that almost made up for the loss of candy. Miguel took the sip, held back a grimace – the taste was awful, but it wasn’t about that; it was about getting to say he drank it – and looked back down at the book. “At this rate, you’ll be able to say Mass next Sunday. The Easter one for sure!”

“Good. I’ve had it with Padre Culo Blanco’s bore fest. There are only so many times you can stand being told you’re going to hell before lunch time,” Ernesto scoffed, then shrugged. “He’s not bothering me, at least.”

“I heard Sister Sofía say that he’s avoiding you. He gets out real quick if he hears you coming.”

“… She mentioned as much to me as well, yes,” was the reply. “Maybe he’s afraid I’ll infect him with my lack of _proper Catholicism,_ but works for me. He seems to have picked Héctor as his victim. I mean, pupil.”

“Héctor says he goes along because he wants to learn English.”

“Why would anyone?”

“Beats me,” Miguel said, then paused a moment before speaking again, unable to keep his concern out of his voice. “What if he told Pa-- Father John, and he’d telling him to stick to his vows?”

“Then it will be a pleasure to undo his holy work,” Ernesto muttered, and Miguel smiled a bit. It had been a real stroke of luck, getting an ally like him. A lot of people agreed that Héctor and Imelda should at least give it a try, but none of them was in the position of authority Ernesto held. “Is there any way you can get him to talk to you? He’s acting weird. I want to know if it’s about Imelda.”

“I’ll offer to lend an ear, since he looks troubled,” Ernesto said, and frowned. “What about this Imelda? I have only seen her from afar. So-- Sister Sofía says she’s been acting odd.

“I’m not sure,” Miguel admitted, unable to keep some disappointment from seeping into his voice. “She’s with the other nuns most of the time, and there are so many of us in the orphanage – I don’t really get to spend much time with her these days.”

“Did you use to?”

“Oh yes, before she became a novice! I played with her brothers. She was a bit stern, but really nice to me. I’m sure she’d be a good mamá,” he added, only to pause and blush when he realized he’d said too much. “I mean-- not that I need-- she’s not that much older than me...” he babbled, and shifted on his chair when Ernesto raised an eyebrow, “I mean… to any kids she and Héctor may have.”

“… You’re hoping they’ll get you out of the orphanage, huh?” Ernesto said quietly, and Miguel nodded. There was a sudden lump in his throat, and he tried to hold back some tears.

“It’s not _that_ important. I really think they would be happy together. They can’t be my _parents,_ you know? More like older siblings. They’re only… maybe twelve years older than me. I don’t need parents. I’ll be out in a few years anyway, and… it’s not that bad, it just isn’t...” Miguel sniffled, and reached up to wipe his eyes. “It’s not that bad,” he added, trying with some success to keep his voice firm. It wasn’t a lie. Most of the time it really wasn’t bad - it was just how things were. But sometimes, when he tried to imagine having what he never got… sometimes it hurt.

There was a pause, then a chuckle, and Ernesto reached to ruffle his hair. “Chin up, niño. We still have time to get them to see the light. I’ll get Héctor out of the clutches of the Holy Church and into the trap of holy matrimony if it’s the last thing I do.”

That caused Miguel to laugh a bit. He was already feeling a bit better. “Heh. Is it really a trap?”

“Oh, yes. A very tight snare, but hey, there are people who walk in it happily. As there are people who willingly take the vows. I’d do neither unless I had a rifle up my-- at my temple, but you know. Judge not, lest you be judged.”

A grin. “Spoken like a real priest.”

“Either you’re a good teacher, or Padre Juan is contagious,” Ernesto quipped with a laugh before finally looking down at the book. “All right, let’s see if I can remember this one...”

* * *

“… And these are the irregular verbs. You will need to memorize them, but other than that it’s pretty straightforward – far more logical than Spanish.”

For the seventeenth time since lunch, when he’d been subjected to not at all casual comments about Father John’s distaste for _secular music_ \- Héctor had to fight an overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. “I see,” he said instead, and smiled, teeth clenched. The man’s sermons were bad but God, he somehow managed to be even more condescending while teaching English – and the fact he didn’t seem to be aware of it made it even worse, somehow. “I’ll do my best to memorize them ahead of the next lesson.”

Father John smiled, as always entirely oblivious of how eager his pupil was to be out of there. “You are a very quick learner. I took more time than that to learn any Spanish, despite the fact I had heard it spoken by servants while growing up.”

_God, give me patience. If you give me strength, I won’t be held responsible for my actions._

“I see,” Héctor said, his voice a bit tighter than he should have allowed it to be, and Padre Juan seemed to pick that up, because for once he actually had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“I… I meant nothing by it, I simply… I grew up fairly close to the border, and--” he trailed off, suddenly even more uncomfortable. Of course he would be: he’d all but admitted that he’d been born and raised on land stolen from Mexico. Fitting, that.

Despite the annoyance, Héctor couldn’t help but feel somewhat bad for him, so he decided to put him out of his misery with a smile and a quip. “You grew up in northern Mexico, you mean,” he said, and the anxious expression on that round, white face faded in a relieved smile.

“Heh. I suppose,” he said, and hesitated for a moment before reaching into a drawer at his small desk. He pulled out a small book that seemed close to falling apart, and handed it to him. “I kept forgetting to give this to you – it’s my dictionary, so that you can look up any word in English if you wish to. I no longer…” a pause, and he made a face. “I _rarely_ need it now.”

… Well, now that was going to be useful, if he was ever to attempt translating that letter – given that he would be able to get his hands on it in the first place. Maybe he should speak to Sofía about it. “Oh, thank you. This will be… very helpful.”

Unaware of his thoughts, Father John Johnson smiled. “You’re quite welcome. You have a lot of potential – I am sure you’ll lead a congregation down the right path, one day.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Héctor said, smiling back, but it was with a sudden sense of dread, a weight on his chest telling that maybe, just maybe, he actually did not. “But perhaps Padre Ernesto would benefit as well, you know? I could suggest he joins us here,” he added.

He’d meant it partly as an attempt to change subject, partly as a jest at Padre Ernesto’s expenses – unfair, how he was spared that guy’s company despite being the parish priest – and he wasn’t prepared for the reaction it got him: Padre Juan grew even paler, like he’d causally suggested he should put a rattlesnake down his shirt. He blinked, taken aback.

“Father John? Are you all right?”

The other man blinked, and nodded quickly. A neutral expression was back on his face, as quickly as it had slipped off. “I doubt Father Ernest would take on the offer,” he said, his voice somewhat stiff. “I… my apologies. My head spun for a moment. It might be best for me to rest.”

“Would you like to see a doctor?”

“No, thank you,” Father John replied, and smiled almost like he meant it. “I’ll be fine with a bit of rest. I apologize for the concern I caused.”

Héctor reassured him there was no need to apologize, but he was extremely relieved when he finally walked out of the door, holding the dictionary to his chest and with a rather confused frown.

Inside the room, John Johnson stared at the wooden door for a few moments, lost in thought – those awful, awful _thoughts_ – before he locked it and walked up to the chest of drawers with heavy steps, unbuttoning the cassock. He bared his torso before kneeling and opening the bottom drawer, already uttering a prayer under the silent gaze of the crucifix on the wall.

The familiar weight of the whip in his hand was a cold, cold comfort.

* * *

With all messages placed – under a flower pot for the seamstress, at the Gonzalez crypt for the gravedigger, inside the box of offerings for Imelda or Sister Gisela or whatever the hell she wanted to be called now – his work for the day was done. He should return to his regular duties so that no one would suspect a thing, and he would… but first, there was something else he wanted to take care of.

Looking after a horse was time-consuming, smelly, and definitely an extra chore he did not need. Besides, what use did a parish priest have for such a fine horse? None, that was it. There were others, however, who could put it – Dante, Padre Ernesto called it – to a better use.

He had time; no one would look for him for another couple of hours. No one looked for him unless they needed something from him, after all. Ungrateful bastards, all of them.

Glancing around to ensure no one was there to see him, Gustavo walked silently behind the church and towards the stable.

* * *

He was not in a good state of mind to hold confession; John had no problem acknowledging it.

Beneath the cassock, his back throbbed horribly. He had prayed, he had cleansed himself, and then he’d been torn from his thoughts by a knock at his door and a request to hold confession that day - something on how Father Ernest’s horse had gone missing, and he’d gone looking for it. John could hardly believe the man had put a _horse_ above his holy duty, but perhaps he should stop letting it surprise him. He’d sighed, and taken on the task.

Most confessions concerned minor sins, but this one - this woman - wasn’t seeking to confess as much as she was looking for advice, although what she had in mind _had_ to be a sin.

“You wish to leave your marital home. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I… I must, Padre. For my safety. He was always a… a difficult man, but since his mother died… last night he lost his mind, and… he left marks, and I… I feared he wouldn’t stop until--”

John scoffed, causing her to trail off. Such weakness, such low moral fiber, trying to flee at the first sign of hardship! “Did you not take that man as your husband?”

“I did, but--”

“In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer? You took a sacred oath, binding you for life!”

There was a hiccupping sob. “He also promised to love and honor me, Padre. And he… he does not…” her voice broke, and for a few moments there were only tears.

Father John Johnson was not, contrary to popular belief, made of stone. The woman’s plight did stir something in his chest. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath to keep his focus, and reached under his right sleeve. Across his forearm, there was a thin raised scar - the mark of the one and only attempt he had made to shield himself from rightful punishment, twelve years earlier; such insolence from his part, a boy thinking he knew better than a wise man he’d angered thought his failings. He traced it with his fingers, his mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Clearly, your failings caused anger.”

“No, I… I am sure I have many failings, Padre, but this time I had done nothing. He flew into a rage for no reason--”

“The anger of the head of a family is never without reason,” John all but snarled, causing the woman to fall silent. He regretted his harshness, but not his words. It was a simple fact - the head of the family had a duty to discipline. It was right. It was not out of cruelty, it couldn’t be.

It _hadn’t_ been out of cruelty. John couldn’t stand to think otherwise.

 _He was right. He sought to correct me._ “He meant to correct you, certainly,” he finally spoke again, his voice calm. On the other side of the confessional, the woman was weeping. A sign of guilt - he had wept, too - but he couldn’t stay indifferent to it. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “You need to ask God for guidance on how to better yourself.”

“I try,” the woman choked out. “I do, Padre! But nothing I do is enough, and I fear he may… one day, if he doesn’t stop-- I don’t fear death, but we have little children, I can’t leave them behind--”

“It is for the sake of those children that you need to mend what is broken. Your foolish idea to leave the marital home goes against the Bible - _urge the younger women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God._ And you’d turn your back to that? Taking the children from their father--” he paused, and something in his throat made it hard to force the next words out. “No child should leave their home, unless… unless forced.”

_Father, I beg you. I’m trying-- I’ve been praying, I will overcome... I-if this is a test He put on my path, I am sure that with your guidance-- Mother, please, I’m sorry...!_

His back burned now as it had burned then. John leaned against the side of the confessional, and the pressure made him feel faint - but it steeled his resolve, cleared his mind of doubt and misplaced pity. Through the haze of pain, his voice rang out firm. “You must endure.”

“I…” her voice faltered, so thin and pained. “It’s so hard, Padre.”

“The Lord puts hurdles in our path. Anyone can do their duty when it’s easy. But each step you take away from your place will take you farther away from God. Think of that, and pray to the Holy Virgin for guidance,” he added. He was meant to give absolution, now, but he did not. After all, that had hardly been a confession; she had asked for advice, had received it, and it was up to her to either follow it or defy God’s will. "Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, a shaky whisper - _“for His mercy endures forever”_ \- and then then the woman stood, and stepped away. No one else came to kneel at the confessional, but John sat in there for a long time afterwards, eyes shut, pressing his back against the wooden wall.

He needed to confess himself, too; he had gone too long without doing so, and he had sinned in thought; no amount of payer or self-inflicted penance could replace absolution from another priest. He wouldn’t be worthy of saying Mass or even receive the holy bread until he receive it… but there was one priest in that town who may confess him, one priest only, and he couldn’t confess it all to him. Father Ernest would _know_ it was him; his accent would give him away the moment he he let out his voice spoke the unspeakable.

And John found the idea more unbearable than any punishment he could inflict upon himself.

* * *

In such dark times, it wasn’t so rare for somebody to break down on the steps of the church.

Especially when funerals were held, Imelda had seen it happening with widows and widowers, people burying their sister or brother. She had seen children mourning their parents and, most heartbreaking of all, parents mourning their children. Sometimes they wept quietly, sometimes they sobbed loudly. The woman sitting on the steps leading to the courtyard her children were playing in along with a few orphans - Fernanda Rodríguez, she recognized her as she stepped closer - was definitely trying to be silent, and utterly failing at it.

Thankfully, none of the children noticed - much less Fernanda’s own. Imelda and Sofía quickly ushered her inside, offered her a glass of water, and managed to calm her down enough to explain what had happened. Once she did explain, Imelda was ready to murder two men: her husband for reducing her in that state, and the gringo for telling her she had to _endure._

“Let me go, Sofía, I _just_ want to talk--”

“No you don’t,” she cut her off, holding her arm tighter. Her voice was a low hiss. “Sebastián Rodríguez wouldn’t be above trying to wring your neck, too. And Padre Juan--” she made a face. “Well. I’d like to see _that,_ but he’s saying nothing most other priest wouldn’t.”

“No, that’s not true!” _Héctor would never._ “He--”

 _“Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord,”_ Sofía snapped. _“For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he--”_

Imelda snarled, turning to glare at her. “What’s with the lesson? You agree with _none_ of it.”

“But the Church _does._ You go confront the gringo, he writes of it to someone higher up, and--” Sofía began, only to suddenly pause… and then let go of her arm. “... Come to think of it, go right ahead. Might be the quickest way to ensure you never get to take the vo--”

“What-- Imeld-- I mean, Sister Gisela? Sister Sofía? What’s happening?”

Héctor’s confused voice caused Sofía to trail off, and Imelda turned. He was in the doorway, standing far closer than they’d been in some time, but Imelda was too furious to care.

“Rodríguez happened!” she spat, venom in her voice. “He decided to beat Fernanda, _again!_ It’s like he tried to strangle her, and the gringo-- when she turned to the confessional for help, he told her to endure - that it was her fault! If he kills her, it will be on his head!”

Héctor blinked again, as though struggling to take in the words - then, slowly, his expression darkened. By the time she paused to draw breath, she was almost taken aback to see a fury that matched her own. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there was a cry of triumph.

_Héctor would never!_

“... Is Fernanda here?” Héctor asked, slowly. “Her children?”

“She’s in there - we let her have some time alone. Her children are playing outside.”

A nod. “Good,” Héctor muttered, and turned to march down the hallway, fists clenched.

“Héctor, wait!” Sofía called. “Get Padre Ernesto to talk to the gringo, he will have to listen--”

“He can deal with Padre Juan,” Héctor replied, marching out. “I’m paying a visit to Sebastián.”

As both Imelda and Sofía blinked, speechless, they could hear a familiar voice suddenly ringing out. “Oh, here you are! Where are you going in such a rush? About to waste more of your ti--”

_“Get the hell out of my way, Gustavo!”_

There was a surprised yelp, more steps, and then silence. Sofía turned to Imelda.

“I’m not saying he’s a man to marry,” she said. “But, if he survives, he _is_ a man to marry.”

For once, Imelda had no retort.

* * *

_It was just a horse._

The voice echoing in the back of his mind sounded aggravatingly like his father’s and, even worse, he knew it was telling the truth. Dante _was_ just a horse; after what he had been through and what he had seen, in the barracks and in conflict - after all he’d had to get used to - the fact he had disappeared shouldn’t bother him that much. He may have stuck with him through thick and thin, carried him across a desert, made him laugh when he grew stubborn and had to be bribed with food - but he was just a horse.

And yet, he was _his_ horse; the sight of that empty stable, with no sign of him anywhere, had far more than he liked to admit. Ernesto tried to tell himself that maybe he’d just wandered out, maybe the stable wasn’t shut properly. He _really_ wanted to believe it, because it meant Dante may be back later, and that space aching cold in his chest would cease to be.

Meanwhile, he’d find Gustavo and grill him over what the hell happened, how could he _let_ it happen, how come he couldn’t even close a fucking _door_ right.

At least, that had been the intention - but, the moment Sofía rushed down the stairs to meet him, he coud tell there was something urgent going on. Namely that Brother Héctor had apparently decided to tempt his fate by confronting a guy who, according to her account, was the size of a bull and with a temper to match.

“... He’d break him over his knee, and Imelda won’t be able to keep it from happening!”

“Imeld-- the novice? She went with him?”

“Ran _after_ him, really. Which I sort of hoped she’d do someday, but... not like this.”

“And I’m supposed to put a stop to whatever is about to happen?” Ernesto asked, but of course he already knew the answer, and he didn’t like it. Goddammit, he didn’t want to get into a fight. That hadn’t been part of the plan, never mind the fact there hadn’t really been any plan at all. He didn’t want any sort of trouble, but it seemed to be following him like an orphan dog. And speaking of orphans, hadn’t Miguel told him that damn town was a _quiet_ place?

“Unless you want to hold a funeral or two, yes,” Sister Sofía was saying, as he knew she would.

Ernesto did his utmost to hold back a groan. Miguel wouldn’t like it at all, seeing the two lovebirds have a joint funeral rather than a wedding. Plus, of course he was supposed to get involved, being the parish priest and all. It was a damn mess and of course, _of course_ Padre Juan was to blame. If he didn’t get his face smashed by the village blacksmith first, Ernesto would make sure to have _words_ with that accursed gringo. “Fine. Fine. What’s the guy’s house?”

A nod. “It’s the house with the black gate, at the end of the main road and then on the left - it’s a bit isolated and the only house with a gate like that, you can’t go wrong,” she added. “I’ll stay here with Fernanda and her children.”

“Not coming for moral support?”

“You have my thoughts and prayers.”

“Gracias. That’s absolutely useless.”

“... And possibly something else, if you _do_ come back in one piece.”

“That’s… slightly better.”

“Good. Now go do your holy duty. Or something.”

As he turned to run - another thing he hated doing; he could dance for hours, but running just about killed him - Ernesto thought, bitterly, that he could get there so much faster if only Dante wasn’t missing.

* * *

Later on, Héctor would laugh about what had happened, about Chicharrón's grumbles that he'd seriously miscalculated Rodríguez's size, and his odds to come out a winner. He'd say that he was right, he'd miscalculated, but of course that wasn't really it and Cheech had to know it, deep down. Héctor had known well that, if a fight broke out, he’d go down and would go down fast.

The thing was, he was too angry to care.

"SEBASTIÁN! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! OPEN THIS DOOR!"

It took some banging, and the door opened, letting out a string of profanities about being awakened at that ungodly hour - namely, eleven in the morning. Sebastián Rodriguez was as tall as Héctor but far wider, with the broad shoulders, deep chest and muscular arms that come with being a blacksmith. He’d been handsome, once, and maybe he still was, but it was hard to see it through the reddened skin, the bloodshot eyes and stubble covering sagging cheeks.

He looked all the world like an angry mastiff, and the thought Fernanda had been told to take her children and just return under his roof, at his mercy, made Héctor’s blood boil.

 _“Shut up!”_ he snapped, causing the man’s stream of curses to stop. Sebastián looked very confused for a moment, as though the fact someone - let alone a _novice_ around half his weight - could scream at him had never crossed his mind, as unlikely as the sun rising from the West. Before he had time to process it, Héctor pushed him back, causing him to stumble back inside his living room - an impossible feat if he hadn’t been too stunned to react. “You’ve hit your wife for the last time, cabrón!”

The mention of his wife seemed to finally snap him out of his confusion, and he scowled. "What did that puta go around to say?" he growled. "The lying bruja, can't even keep a clean house. Did she run to the church? And what are you going to do, little priest?" his scowl turned into a very ugly smile, and he jabbed his middle finger painfully against Héctor's chest. "I'll tell you what I'll do. You go back and tell her that unless she wants me to give her a very good reason to cry, she will be back _ten minutes ago_ and start getting my lunch rea--"

_SMACK._

Héctor may not look like it, but he knew how to pack a punch: you don't spend your childhood in an orphanage and occasionally in the streets without learning a thing or two. He felt the blow all the way up to his shoulder, but he didn't care: all he could focus on was the grim satisfaction when Sebastián staggered back, holding a hand up to his nose, which was already gushing blood. There would be hell to pay, but oh, was it worth--

Retaliation came fast, faster than it could be expected from a guy that size. It hit him in the face, quite literally, before the sense of triumph had even faded. Suddenly there was blood on his tongue, his head bounced off the wall behind him, and the ground rushed up to meet him.

Héctor gasped, dazed; something small and hard fell out of his mouth along with a mouthful of blood. He tried to stand, but a sudden kick to his stomach sent him sprawling, knocking all air out of his lungs. He gasped, looking up to see Sebastián bringing up a booted foot.

"Pinche cabrón! I'll teach you to mind your own goddamn bus-- aaagh!"

Something flew through the air, hitting him straight on the already bloody nose. He let out a cry of pain, stepping back... and then froze, staring at something past Héctor like he couldn't believe his eyes.

"What the-- has the entire world gone mad?" he blurted out, once again too stunned to do anything but standing there, staring. Héctor groaned, turning to look up... and then froze, the expression on his bloodied face probably not too different from Sebastián’s. Standing above him in her white robes and headdress, a shoe in her hand and a scowl on her face, was Imelda.

_No, no, no, what are you doing here? He's dangerous-- he won't hesitate--!_

"Bastardo," Imelda spat, her voice so cold it sent chills down Héctor's spine. "You lay a hand on him, or your wife and children, or anyone else ever again, and you'll be very, _very_ sorry.”

Sebastián blinked a couple of times and then, as Héctor had feared, the surprise gave way to something else - fury. His fists clenched, and Héctor made a supreme effort to stand up, if shakily, between the two of them. His ears buzzed, his face hurt, but he steadied himself.

"Imelda, go... go away."

"And let you get yourself turned into a wet spot on the floor?"

"I wasn't about to-- all right, maybe I was, but if you stay--"

"You just rushed here without any sort of plan, didn’t you?"

"Why, do you have one?"

"Well... no."

"See? You need to get out of he--."

"Not leaving you here, I'm no--"

"... Are you two done?" Sebastían asked in a low growl. “What the hell is even happening? Since when is it any of your business what a man does in his own damn house? You both get out of here this _instant_ and send my wife back, or else--”

“Oh, señor Rodríguez! Buenos días. I was _just_ looking for you!”

Both Héctor and Imelda turned to see Padre Ernesto walking in, a charming smile on his face that didn’t falter when he saw the blood on his face. Sebastián reached up to rub his head.

"Has the entire fucking Catholic church decided to meet in my house to tell me how to deal with my goddamn wife?" he blurted out. "Am I hallucinating this? First a novice punches me, then a nun throws a _shoe_ at me, and now the _parish priest_ shows up for a lecture?"

“Technically, she is also a novice,” Padre Ernesto said, still smiling, and reached to put a hand on Héctor’s shoulder. He gripped it more tightly than necessary. “My apologies for the intrusion. I believe it’s best for all of us if we return to the church, you return to… whatever you were doing, and we all forget this unpleasant incident, sí?”

“Fernanda is not coming back here,” Imelda snapped, and Héctor nodded in agreement.

"Not her, nor the children," he said, and glanced at Padre Ernesto. "Padre, please. You haven't seen what he did to her!"

"She's my wife!" Sebastián bellowed. "And I will do what I want with her until she learns!"

Padre Ernesto sighed, and let go of Héctor’s shoulder. "See, all of you said exactly what I feared you'd say," he muttered, turning to Sebastián. "Well, it seems there is only one way to solve this unfortunate mess," he added, getting himself a sneer.

"Oh? And what will you do, priest? Read a passage of the Bible, say a prayer, or--" he began, and never got to finish: Padre Ernesto was almost as tall as him, almost as broad, and moved just as fast. His fist collided with his face with a loud, satisfying _crack,_ and this time the man didn't just stagger back: he fell like a sack of potatoes, howling curses and covering his face.

As he struggled to get back up under Héctor's stunned gaze, Padre Ernesto turned to them. The pleasant smile was still on his lips. "Ime-- Sister Gisela, I suppose? We never met properly."

Imelda raised an eyebrow, and a smile tugged her lips. “We have now. My pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Padre Ernesto replied, his voice so smooth, then he glanced at Héctor. In front of them, Sebastián was lifting himself up to his knees, sounding like a furious bull. “I don’t think the Lord’s message has quite sunk in. I might require your help, amigo.”

Slowly, Héctor smiled and cracked his knuckles. “Oh, my friend- you don’t even need to ask.”

* * *

“You mean, he just… left?”

“Yes. Awful, no? To leave town in such a rush, leaving behind a wife and children. But you know, he had this terrible bout of bad luck and clearly figured a change of air would do him good.”

“Bad… luck?”

“Oh, the worst luck,” Héctor said, turning to glance at Ernesto. “He fell down the stairs.”

“Into a door,” Ernesto added. “And just as he was getting up, he stepped on a rake.”

“Then stumbled back and fell on a chair.”

“And he was hit by a shoe.”

“That’s when he decided it was time to leave but imagine what rotten luck, a gust of wind slammed the front door right on his face.”

“Again.”

“I think it broke his nose.”

“Definitely broke his nose.”

“So he decided to just leave without taking anything.”

“Makes you wonder if he angered God. Can’t argue with His will.”

“We’ll be praying for him.”

“Huh? Oh, yes. Right. Intensely. May the Lord grant him peace and all that.”

“We let him know he’ll always be in our thoughts.”

“And that we’d look after his family very, very closely.”

“In case he returns.”

“He means, _until_ he returns.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Good thing Ceci has offered Fernanda a job so she can keep supporting the kids, eh?”

Among the small crowd gathered outside the church, there were plenty of sceptical looks and some raised brows… but absolutely no protests. It looked like no one had really liked Rodríguez that much. Even so, of course someone just _had_ to speak up.

“... And what _happened_ to you?”

Ernesto and Héctor exchanged a glance. Ernesto probably didn’t look so good - he’d managed to fix his hair, but he was pretty sure his throbbing face would sport bruises for a while - and Héctor looked pretty awful, with an eye swollen shut, a bloodied nose and a split lip. Still, he grinned widely at him, showing off a gap where one of his front teeth had been knocked loose. Ernesto found himself responding with a grin of his own. Yes, he _did_ like that guy.

“Well, it seems that bad luck is contagious. We tripped.”

“But _nowhere_ as badly as poor señor Rodríguez did.”

“Now, can’t you see they need to get their injuries tended to?” Imelda suddenly spoke up. She’d been quiet for a while, having returned first - and without a scratch - to tell Sofía what had happened, and to keep people from knowing she’d been part of that _awful_ string of bad luck. “Move along, let them get inside the church,” she was adding, and her gaze softened when she glanced at Héctor. “... I’ll see you at mass.”

“Of course,” Héctor replied, and Ernesto had to drag him up the steps before someone could notice the dumb, dreamy grin on his face.

* * *

“Oh, Father Ernest. I was wondering where you-- _Father Ern--_ Brother Hector! What in God’s name has happened to you?”

John’s voice came out as an undignified screech, but he couldn’t help it: he hadn’t expected to walk in the sacristy to find both men holding bloody towels, bruises blooming on their faces. He walked up to them in sudden alarm, entirely forgetting his own aching back, and the annoyance of having been left on his own to deal with confessions faded entirely.

“Were you… were you attacked? Good God, is there anything I can do to help?”

Father Ernest looked at him, and what would have been the most charming smile he’d ever seen, if not for the fact the fury beneath it was suddenly palpable, filling the whole room. It was then that he realized Brother Hector was staring at him, too, his face an expressionless mask.

“There is something you can do to help, yes,” Father Ernest said, his voice smooth, and stepped forward. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word.”

“What is i--” John began, but he didn’t get to finish the sentence. Next thing he knew, a hand was around his throat and he was slammed against the wall with stunning force, turning his back into a mass of white-hot pain. He let out a strangled cry, unable to draw in enough breath to scream properly, and reached blindly to grasp Father Ernest’s wrist. Though a veil of tears, he could see him staring at him with something not too far away from disgust.

_Oh God, oh my God, does he know? How could he…?_

John tore his gaze away to glance at Brother Hector, to silently ask for help, but with growing dread he realized that no help would come from him: he looked as disgusted as Father Ernest.

“Listen here and listen close, Padre Juan,” Father Ernest all but snarled, staring at him right in the eyes. “Today’s confession of Fernanda Rodríguez was the last one you’ll ever do in this parish. You should count yourself lucky that we stepped in before she could follow your _enlightened_ advice and go back home to that animal.”

… Wait, was _that_ it? Despite the hand on his throat and the throbbing pain in his back, for  few moments relief was all he could feel… followed by mild surprise, and then anger. He had done nothing but his duty - how dare that man, that _insult_ to Catholics everywhere, get his filthy hands on him and presume he could berate him for doing so? “What… what have you done?”

Father Ernest grinned. “What we had to,” he said. _“Todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina.”_

Hearing the words of his oder’s founder from him made John scowl. “This- this is not divine will!”

“So _divine will_ is sending a woman back to a beast? Interesting.”

“I gave advice… aligned with the scriptures,” he wheezed. “If you ever even bothered to read-- a woman who fails to submit to her husband--”

“I don’t care,” Father Ernest growled, causing him to trail off. He was suddenly acutely aware of how close he was, how much stronger; it made his head spin, cold sweat on his brow. “Look what he did to _us,_ cabrón! What do you think he’d have done to a woman the size of sparrow?”

“I-if she’d minded herself, as to not anger him--” John began, voice shaking, but a sudden tightening of the grip on his neck cut him off.

“Well, you mind _yourself_ now, as to not anger me,” Father Ernest sneered. “You are a guest in this parish - _my_ parish. I’m taking it back, and I suggest you remember that or _leave._ You’ll never even look at the confessionals again. Don’t bother with Mass this Sunday - I’ll take care of it. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

It was far from the first time John was threatened, and he should have reacted with defiance, told him he wasn’t surprised such a poor priest wouldn’t know what the scriptures said about man and wife; he should have threatened to write to the Archidiocesis to inform them of such insolence, and then followed through with it… but right there and then he could only think of how awfully close he was, and he suddenly feared that closeness more than his fury.

_No no no no no. Please, no. Let me go._

Unaware of his desperate thoughts, Father Ernest was growling, “ _Have I,_ Padre Juan?”

“Y-yes!” John choked out. He was way, way past even thinking of correcting him on his name. It didn’t matter. He just needed out of there, away from him. “I won’t-- please, let me go!”

His broken voice caused the man to pause, looking down at him - and the tears of fear, pain and frustration in his eyes - for just a moment; then he snorted. “I have met cowards, but you beat them all,” he muttered, and let him go. Even more terrifyingly, he gave him a smooth smile the next moment, as though nothing happened. “Well, it’s all sorted, then. Thanks for hearing me out. You’re excused.”

“I--” John hesitated, back pulsing with pain, heart hammering in his chest, and thoughts in turmoil as he struggled to grasp what had just happened. He brought a hand to his neck. “You--”

 _You have made a mistake,_ he wanted to say. _The Archidiocesis will know. The Archbishop will know. You’ll be sent away, or defrocked, you’ll regret this, you… you..._

Words failed him, and he swallowed. His hand grasped the crucifix and he turned to look at Brother Hector, at the dried blood still on that blank face. A childish part of him screamed that it was unfair, it hadn’t been him to raise his hand on that woman. He’d never been violent or cruel, never harsher than required - never harsher to others than he was on himself. He was _fair,_ and the farthest thing for a coward. He did what he had to do to serve God, even if it wasn’t easy.

_Anyone can do their duty when it’s easy._

“I didn’t-- I wished harm to no one. The scriptures, I only advised--”

“I _said_ you’re excused,” Father Ernest snapped, and that was it. Without even daring look in his general direction, trying to muster as much dignity as he could, John walked out of the sacristy as quick as possible - back to the safety of his room where his Bible, an old letter and his whip awaited, to help him get a hold of himself again. His back still hurt, but clearly not _enough._

And once that was taken care of and his mind clearer, he’d think of his next move. He may not be wanted in that town, he may be hated by the clergy for some petty reason, but so was Christ and He did not turn back from his duty, so neither would he. He refused to leave a town in such desperate need for his help, in the hands of a priest who hardly deserved to be called such.

Father Ernest was not fit for his role, and he would need to go before he doomed the entire parish and corrupted even Brother Hector, the young man who showed so much promise. John had to protect him from such influence, and he would.

He had no power to remove a parish priest, of course, but someone else could. They _would,_ once they knew what madness was going on in Santa Cecilia.

He just needed a pen, and paper.


	7. Héctor's Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one - had to travel home for Christmas. Family first and all that junk. This time I was unable to update from the airport, but I _am_ kinda drunk.  
>  Also, happy holidays to everyone. 
> 
> [Art is by Senora_Luna (first two pics) and Elletoria (last pic)!]

That was wrong. It was _all wrong._

Sitting towards the back of the church - it was more crowded than it had ever been when he said Mass, and yet no one was sitting by him - Father John Johnson kept staring at the same spot above the altar, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his eyes from slipping shut. He was so tired after yet another sleepless night, and his eyes felt scratchy with the lack of sleep.

At least, he had to concede, the idly chat in Spanish was gone, replaced by the familiar lull of the proper Latin prayers and songs. Well, almost: Father Ernest’s pronunciation was nothing short of atrocious, though not quite the _very_ worst he’d heard in his journeys.

The homily - in Spanish, that was allowed - was _painfully_ simplistic, but given what kind of brute was delivering it, it was a wonder he wasn’t suggesting turning the parish into a brothel or something equally outrageous. But once his letter reached its destination--

Chanting started suddenly, causing him to wince - God, how deep had he gone into his thoughts? - and people around him, save for children too young to have had their First Communion, stood to approach the altar and receive the Eucharist.

And John… didn’t. He _couldn’t._ He’d sinned in thought, and he needed confession - needed to be absolved - before he could presume to be worthy of receiving the body of Christ. But he couldn’t do that, either: he’d know it was him the instant he spoke.

The thought filled him with more dread than he thought a human being could bear; he hadn’t felt such visceral terror since the day he’d returned home to find his parents sitting stiffly in the living room, to realize that they had been waiting, and that no one else was in the house. His small black journal - a gift from his father when he’d turned thirteen to write down his failings in so that he could reflect on them, a journal that was supposed to remain _private_ \- had been in his mother’s grip. And in his father’s hand--

The memory cut like a knife, and John forced himself out of it, forced himself to ignore the phantom sting in his arm and the much more real pain in his back. If his family had been Catholic, that would not have happened. He wouldn’t have written his confessions anywhere - he would have spoken to a priest, received penance, and no one else would have known. The secret of confession was sacred. That meant that, even if Father Ernest knew it was him…

No. No, he… _couldn’t._ It didn’t matter if no one else knew, if Easter was approaching and he _had_ to confess himself - _he_ would know, and that alone would be too much.

_It can’t be. It isn’t fair. I was cured, Lord, why me?_

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the words of an old mentor echoed like a death toll.

_“Perhaps you’re not meant to be rid of it, John. Perhaps this is a cross you’re meant to bear.”_

No. No, it couldn’t be. It was something he refused to accept, something he had to fight… and part of him feared that, if he stayed, he would lose that fight. He should leave, he had to leave, take his teaching somewhere else, someplace without temptations.

_These people don’t want me here. I am wasting my time._

But he couldn’t do it. He had a mission, and it was the only important thing in his life. He had to persevere, as Christ would. He couldn’t leave them to their own primitive ways only because he was too weak to control his mind, the results of years of discipline unraveling before his eyes.

_I must continue. I must endure._

Slowly, John sank on his knees, clasped his hands, and prayed with his eyes tightly shut as the rite went on all around him. In his mouth, there was a taste of bile instead of that of holy bread.

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis,” he heard Father Ernest saying.

_Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us._

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem.”

_Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grat has peace._

Father John Johnson kept his eyes shut. He prayed for mercy, he prayed for peace, and he feared he’d find neither.

* * *

“That went really well. It sounded like you knew exactly what you were saying!”

Getting rid of the purple vestments - not much time left until Easter and then he could get rid of that, thank God; purple really was not his color, even if it did go well with the bruise still on the left side of his face - Ernesto laughed. His first proper Mass had gone well enough, yes. There had been a couple of moments when he’d forgotten what would come next, but Miguel had whispered it on time on one occasion, and he’d remembered after a few instants on the other.

Everyone had seemed pretty relieved to see him back at the altar, and no one had questioned him. Not aloud, anyway. “You think? Padre Juan looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.”

Miguel shrugged. “He always looks like that. And plus, you _did_ slam him against a wall.”

“That is also true.”

“Not very priestly.”

“He pissed me off. I take it Héctor told you?”

“Yes. And Sofía told Ceci, who told Chelo, who told Cheech. Now Cheech... _sorta_ likes you.”

“I’m flattered,” Ernesto muttered, but frowned slightly. All right, Sofía would have heard it from someone else anyway, but maybe it would be best to be careful with what he told her. It had just been hard to resist the temptation to brag about it when she’d come in his room, sat on his lap, and asked to know exactly how everything had played out.

He may or may not have embellished the tale of his visit to the Rodríguez household, and definitely hadn’t told her about the moment he’d yelled _‘not the face!’_ while holding up his arms to block a punch, but sometimes reality _does_ need to be embellished to make a good tale and well, it wouldn’t be anywhere close to being his biggest lie.

“What a hero,” she’d muttered with a sigh that sounded just a little mocking, but her fingers had brushed gently over the bruises and he hadn’t minded at all. “Now, I think I promised you something if you made it back in one piece....” she’d added, and no more words had been spoken for a while. Ernesto hadn’t minded _that_ at all, either.

“Do you think he’s going to leave?”

“Huh?” Ernesto blinked, torn out of some very pleasant memories. He blinked down at Miguel, who’d gotten the altar boy robe off himself. The kid really needed a new shirt; the one he wore most of the time was really threadbare. “Sorry, niño, I was distracted. What was that?”

“I asked if you think Padre Juan is going away. I mean, why would he stay? No one likes him.”

Good question, that; Ernesto had really hoped that pain in the ass would just skip town and rid them of his annoying presence, but of course he had not. The next morning he’d been there, just a little more cautious, somehow even paler, the shadows under his eyes darker; he’d been sullen but quiet, and kept out of his way… although of course he still went around to bother people, preaching about proper Catholicism and whatnot.

And getting blank stares and polite nods at best as well as slammed doors, according to Sofía.

In the end, he shrugged. “Whatever. I have enough to worry about without trying to figure out what goes on in that gringo’s head,” he said, and opened a drawer to take a bottle of mass wine.

Miguel raised an eyebrow. “What is that for?”

“I have to get in the confessionals, listen to confessions, and give absolutions. Either I drink, or I start screaming next time someone confesses they envied the neighbour’s cow or stole eggs.”

“Right,” Miguel said, then seemed to hesitate. “Héctor looked nervous today. And at the organ--”

“He missed a few notes. Twice. Not like him at all.”

“You noticed?”

“Am I or am I not a musician?” Ernesto grinned. “And he kept glancing towards Imelda.”

“Do you think he’ll come to confession? Asking for advice?” Miguel asked eagerly, and Ernesto thought about it for a few moments. To be fair, Héctor _had_ seemed somewhat troubled lately… and, sooner or later, everyone needs to confess _something._

Except him, of course. There were things Ernesto could never tell, like deserting the Federal army after shooting a hole in a comrade’s head… and considering doing the same to a little kid who was too smart for his own good.

Something cold settled in the pit of his stomach, and he tasted bile again, but none of it showed. Ernesto just smiled at Miguel. “He might,” he said lightly. “He just might, and I’ll be ready.”

* * *

“Imel-- Sister Gis-- you wanted to see me?”

It took Héctor some effort to keep his voice calm, because now more than ever - after seeing her so furious and beautiful standing up to that _animal,_ unflinching and unafraid - he could hardly look at her without feeling like his heart was trying to leap out of his chest. And God, did he look at her. He was glancing in her direction far more than it was advisable.

Still looking at the children playing in the yard, she nodded. “Yes,” was the reply, voice firm and controlled as always. Despite the fact the kids were doing nothing dangerous she didn’t take her eyes off them for an instant, and realization - _she doesn’t want to look at me_ \- felt as though someone had grasped his heart and squeezed. His now gap-toothed smile - he really needed to do something about that - faded.

“Sofía will get you a key to the gringo’s room,” Imelda was saying. “We need to know what is up with him. No one wants him here, and yet he does not leave. Something is up.”

… Oh, that. Right. Priorities. “I’ll find out what the letter is about.”

A nod. “Good,” she said, still sounding quite stiff. “If he’s a danger, I’d rather know it before they come back, in case… they need to take measures.”

Well, now that was a thought Héctor did not like, as much as he disliked the man, and he found himself hoping he’d find nothing damning in his search. “Right. Oh, Cheech has found your me-”

“Hey, it’s Héctor!”

“Brother Héctor! Come play with us!”

“Heh. Looks like I’ve been spotted,” Héctor said with a sheepish grin, and walked up to the orphans, a spring in his step, faintly wondering what Miguel was up to those days.

He’d hardly seen him in a while and it felt like he’d been neglecting him, really, even if he seemed to be all right spending time with Padre Ernesto. They should spend more time together and talk, or come up with a new song, like they used to do. They would soon, he told himself.

As soon as that entire mess was sorted out.

* * *

“There’s nothing to sort out up here.”

“No? I could have _sworn_ there was a leak letting the rain in. Can you look better?”

Perched on top on top a ladder and leaning against one of the wooden beams on the kitchen’s ceiling, Gustavo grunted and lifted the lamp. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing. It isn’t even damp.”

“How odd,” Sofía muttered, eyeing the table where Gustavo had left his tool box… and the bunch of keys he always carried with him everywhere he went, opening every door in the parish.

_“The gringo has done enough damage,”_ Imelda had told her. _“We need to know who we’re dealing with. Héctor thinks he can translate whatever that letter is if you get him the key._ They _’ll come to Santa Cecilia in two days for food and shelter; I want to have that information for them.”_

Well, there were the keys; only that of course Sofía had no idea which key was the right one, and it wasn’t like she could just ask to have them all for a while: it would lead to questions she did not need. Unaware of all that, Gustavo was grumbling.

“Well, thanks for wasting my time,” he snapped, climbing down. She raised an eyebrow.

“That’s no way to talk to a bride of Christ.”

“Hah! Good one. You’re bride to _everyone_ except Christ. No real wonder your family was looking to see you married and off their back as soon as possible,” Gustavo snorted, climbing down. He turned to the table where he’d left his tool box and the keys, and Sofía had to say _something._

“No wonder yours came all the way here just to _dump_ you.”

Her words hit the mark, causing Gustavo to still and turne stiffly. “You don’t know what you’re--”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about. I saw you and the others all the time in the plaza, don’t think I don’t remember it. Everyone liked Héctor, gave you a wide berth, and you took it as some kind of personal insult,” Sofía snorted, and walked up to him. “You blamed him for being too well-liked, you blame everyone else and their cat for being _ungrateful_ or whatever, and I bet you think you’re the poor victim of some sort of conspiracy, but you’re missing the obvious.” She looked up at him, and jabbed a finger against his chest. “The point is that you’re a _jerk,_ amigo. And no one likes a jerk.”

There was a brief moment, before his bewilderment turned into a scowl, when his expression seemed almost pained. It made Sofía feel slightly - just slightly - bad for being so heavy handed, but she _was_ telling the truth… and she needed to get him to storm out and forget, if for just a few minutes, the bunch of keys on the table. Needs must when the devil drives, after all.

“I’m not your amigo,” Gustavo snarled, face contorted in fury and fists clenched. Sofía met his glare with an unimpressed look.

“You’re no one’s amigo.”

“I haven’t come here to be insulted by the town puta!”

“Oh? And where do you usually go?”

Normally Gustavo would have followed it up with some further insult, or a threat to expose her - like _anyone_ would be surprised - but this time her remarks had clearly cut too deep. He turned, and stormed out of the kitchen like he feared what he’d do if he allowed himself to linger, leaving behind his tool box… and the keys to every door in the parish.

Satisfaction only mildly tinged with guilt, Sofía reached to take the keys. They felt heavy in her hand, but she only needed one of them, and a few minutes to figure out which one to take. Then she’d replace it with some old key she had found in a cabinet, and hand the right one to Héctor.

She just hoped he’d picked up enough English for it to be of some use.

* * *

_God, I just hope I picked up enough English to do this._

As he pushed the door open - why did it have to creak like that? - Héctor knew he had to be quick. He didn’t know how long Father John would be gone, now how long Sofía would be able to hold his attention if he returned too soon. There could be no good explanation to give if he was found inside his locked room.

Luckily, he did not have to look far: the old Bible was in plain sight at the small bedside table. It was very old, and it immediately opened at the page marked by a piece of paper - the old letter he was looking for. Héctor would have paid the Bible itself no mind if not for the fact something caught his eye - one passage on the page that had been underlined with so much emphasis that the pen seemed to have almost cut through the paper. It was Leviticus 20:13.

_If a man sleeps with a man as with a woman, they have both committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them._

Well, that was a weirdly specific thing to underline. Héctor flipped through it to see that while there were notes at the margins of several pages, no other passage was underlined like tha--

A wooden board creaked beneath his feet as he shifted his weight to one foot, and reminded him he had to be quick. Héctor put down the Bible and letter, took a pencil and paper out of his pockets, and began copying every word. He didn’t understand enough to know what it was about, but it didn’t matter. Once back in the safety of his own room with the copy, he’d _know._

* * *

Miguel really hadn’t thought he’d bump into Padre Juan there.

He had taken that route precisely to avoid bumping into anyone, at the back of the church and through a small grove where trees had given no fruit at all in years, to get to Chicharrón’s shack in the cemetery. He really wanted to practice a bit with his new guitar, so that next time Héctor had time to meet up and play he could surprise him and--

“Pordóneme, Padre, porque he pecado.” The words, spoken very slowly, caused Miguel to pause and turn. He didn’t have to look far: only a few steps away, leaning against a tree and with his back to him, was Padre Jua-- Father John. He didn’t seem to have noticed him, which made Miguel even more curious. He could smell smoke when he brought something to his mouth while repeating the sentence again, even more slowly… and, Miguel realized, making a very clear effort to hide his foreign accent. “Pordóneme, Padre, porque he pecado.”

“... Padre Ju-- John?” Miguel called out, causing the man to recoil and drop the cigarette he’d been holding. He turned quickly, the look of alarm fading into a smile - a very tired smile, he didn’t look too good - and he stepped on the still smoking butt to extinguish it.

“Ah, Michael,” he said. He seemed rather embarrassed. “I… didn’t expect to see anyone here.”

Me neither, Miguel thought, but didn’t say it. “My name is not Michael,” he pointed out instead. It was annoying how he kept changing everyone’s names, really, and he should stop. To his surprise, that got him another smile… and a rather sad one at that.

“Don’t you like it? I find it is a nice name. You know what Saint Michael Archangel did?”

A nod. “He chased the devil away from heaven.”

“That he did. _And war broke out in heaven: Michael and his angels fought with the dragon; and the dragon and his angels fought, but they did not prevail, nor was a place found for them in heaven any longer,_ ” Padre Juan recited. His pained smile turned oddly fond. “My younger brother loved that passage. His name was Michael, too. I read it to him very often.”

_Oh._ Miguel wasn’t sure what to say. “I… would prefer to be called Miguel,” he said in the end, a bit hesitant. It was only fair for him to use his real name, but somehow, suddenly he felt guilty for asking. “It is the same, anyway. Just in a different language.”

Padre Juan stared at him for a moment before nodding, his lips barely curling. “... If you promise to tell no one about my little vice. Don’t lie on my account. Just… forget about it,” he said, glancing at the cigarette butt, and Miguel found it funny. He looked as guilty about it as Antonio had back when Madre Gregoria had caught him with a cigarette and given him a whipping.

“Promise,” Miguel said, and dared to grin. “Can I try one?”

“Absolutely not,” Padre Juan replied, but it wasn’t followed by a scolding. He just sighed, and leaned against the tree again, shutting his eyes. Miguel noticed, for the first time, that he was even paler than usual. He definitely looked ill, and in a way Miguel found it annoying that he still felt bad for him, even if he told Fernanda to go back to her awful husband and made her cry.

“... Are you all right, Padre?” he asked. What was he doing there anyway, aside from smoking? Practicing his Spanish? But why bother with the confession formula? He surely knew it in Latin.

“I... “ he seemed to hesitate. “I am fine. Only a bit tired, and need to be on my own for a while.”

“Sure.” Miguel shrugged. “I won’t tell  about the cigarette,” he added, gaining himself a smile.

“Thank you, Miguel,” he murmured, and turned away as Miguel nodded back and walked off.

When he turned back before leaving the grove, he saw that Father John hadn’t moved at all.

* * *

_Sir,_  
_I am writing to demand you cease your attempts to contact my family._  
_I have mourned the death of my firstborn, as did my wife. My children mourned the loss of a brother, and put it behind them. If you have a shred of decency, you will not reopen our wounds to seek a blessing  that is not mine to give. Your path in life, wherever it leads, is your own._  
_You no longer have a father. I only ever had one son. For both of our sakes, never write again._  
_Sincerely,_ _  
_ Reverend Johnson.

For what felt like a very long time, Héctor could only stare speechlessly at the translation he’d managed to put together, dictionary in hand. He read it through once again, then again, and one more time; he couldn’t recall ever reading something so unfeeling, so cold. Suddenly, the page he’d found the letter on - the underlined passage - made _sense._

His stomach sank as he thought back of the date on top of the original letter - 24 December. La Noche Buena, of _all_ days to disown a son. Reverend Johnson had penned those words, forever slamming the door shut to his firstborn, and gone on to celebrate with the rest of his family.

_And he kept it, he still reads it. Christ, he keeps it in his Bible, and Sofía said he has a whip..._

_They shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them._

Héctor found he couldn’t stand to look at those words anymore. He crumpled the translation in his fist and closed the dictionary with numb fingers, staring blankly ahead. He had never had a family; what had to be like, having one and then losing it for good - rejected like a dog? He didn’t know. He found he did not _want_ to know. He could at least see now why, despite everyone’s hostility, the gringo persevered, seemingly not taking notice of it at all.

However much people in Santa Cecilia may dislike Father John Johnson, it was clear none of them hated him nearly as much as he hated himself.

* * *

“So, it was nothing of any importance?”

“Not to anyone but Father John, no.”

Well, that was in equal part a disappointment and a relief. A disappointment because honestly, Sofía would have very much liked having the gringo out of their hair and digging up some dirt about him would have been helpful; and a relief because well, if it had turned out he was a spy as Imelda had feared, he would have to go.

And, annoying as she found him, Sofía couldn’t say she wanted him dead… yet. She wouldn’t put it past him to change her mind on that, though.

“What was it about, anyway?” she asked. At the very least, she would appreciate some juicy gossip out of the entire thing.

Héctor seemed to hesitate before speaking. “It was a letter from his father. It doesn’t sound like they parted ways amicably.”

“Hah! Too much of a pain in the ass even for his own flesh and blood?” In her amusement, Sofía missed the brief furrowing of Héctor’s brow, showing that the gears in his head were turning quickly… usually to come up with some sort of excuse.

“His father disowned him,” he said. “He signed as _Reverend Johnson_ – so I assume Father John is a convert. His family was not Catholic.”

“And they disowned him over it?”

“That’s what the letter sounded like, yes,” Héctor replied, and Sofía made a face. She was about to say that being an utter stick in the mud must have ran in the family, but there were footsteps and they turned to see Padre Juan himself walking in… to stop short the instant he saw them.

For a moment he looked surprised, like he’d thought he was the only person at the parish, then his expression turned more guarded. Since the memorable day el señor Rodríguez had been hit by that _awful_ string of bad luck, and Padre Ernesto had expressed his polite disagreement with his methods, things had been tense between him and… everybody else really. He even ate his meals in his room.

“My apologies,” he was saying now, his voice somewhat hollow. He didn’t look too good, now that she took a good look at him. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll return at another ti--”

“Wait!” Héctor spoke suddenly, taking a step forward and causing the gringo to pause. “Father John, I believe… maybe...” he paused under Padre Juan’s surprised gaze and Sofía’s _very_ perplexed one. “… I could use a few more English lessons,” he finally finished lamely. “Maybe one of these days…?”

Padre Juan stared at him for a few moments, clearly surprised, then he smiles and oh, look at that, it even looked like he meant it. “I’d be happy to help,” he said, sounding relieved – but the smile was gone the next moment, when he glanced at Sofíá. She returned it with what was only slightly short of a glare. “… If you’ll excuse me,” he finished, and walked out the way he’d come.

As he left, Sofía turned to glance at Héctor with a raised eyebrow. “En serio?”

A shrug, a look that was almost apologetic. “I kinda feel bad for him. He must feel lonely.”

“Given what a prick he is, he has no one to blame but himself,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “I’m surprised he said yes. He’s been avoiding Padre Ernesto like the plague.”

“Well, he did slam him--”

“He avoided him before that, too,” Sofia pointed out, and shrugged. “God knows why.”

“Yes,” Héctor said, sounding thoughtful, and looked away. “Only God knows.”

* * *

“... And you’ll say, uh, ten Hail Mary. And don’t do it again.”

He _would_ do it again, of course. Whoever that was - Ernesto suspected it was that Antonio guy who showed up from time to time with carved wooden figurines for the kids at the orphanage, but of course he couldn’t be entirely sure - confessed the same thing every few days: looking at his neighbour’s wife and thinking he’d hit that.

_Give him a week, and he’ll be back with the same exact confession,_ Ernesto thought, gulping down a mouthful of mass wine. He heard the man standing up to walk away and, only a few seconds later, someone else approached and knelt. He couldn't quite place who this one was, but the voice was that of an aging woman.

“Bless me, Padre, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.”

Not that much of a frequent client, then. He took another swig.

_Drink once if she envied whatever the neighbour had, twice if she took yarn without paying._

“Speak freely, my child,” he told the woman, thinking she may very well be his mother by the sound of it. Maybe even his grandmother.

“Well, it is about the young man who helps me out with some work in my house - he’s ever so helpful, fixing my chicken wire and my roof.”

“A good man.”

“Good looking, too.”

The wine he’d been about to swallow went the wrong way, and Ernesto spat it out in a fine mist against the side of the confessional, coughing. “Are you all right, Padre?” he heard her ask.

Well. That wasn’t where he’d expected the confession of an old señora to go. “I-- ack! My apologies,” Ernesto rasped, and cleared his throat. “So, you have sinned in thought.”

“... Well. Not in thought.”

Oh, Ernesto thought. _Oh._ “So it was... a carnal sin?”

“He is _very_ good looking.”

“I will take it as a yes.”

“He was also very willing. I have been a widow for far too long, Padre.”

“Well, _that_ gets adultery off the list,” he said.

He heard her cackle on her side of the confessional. “Will you give me absolution?”

“And a handshake, if it didn’t break the rules,” Ernesto said, and this time he was grinning. Now _that_ was a funny one. He couldn’t wait to tell Migue-- no, wait. Not Miguel. Sofía, for sure. Maybe Héctor would have a laugh. After all, if he didn’t know who it was who confessed - could it be the Delgado widow…? - the secret of confession was unbroken. Kind of.

The woman chuckled again. “You are very kind, Padre.” A pause, and he could _hear_ the grin in her voice. “... And very handsome.”

Inwardly thanking the Lord or whoever was there to thank for the fact he hadn’t taken another swig from the bottle, Ernesto laughed. “I’ll take the compliment. Nothing more than that. But it’s appreciated. Now, say… a the rosary, or something. And don’t do it again.” A pause. “... You know I _have_ to say that.”

He was still cackling to himself when someone else approached and knelt, causing the old wood to creak. His voice rang out - _“Bless me, Padre, for I have sinned”_ \- and the cackle died in Ernesto’s throat. He knew that voice very well by now; he’d heard it pray and sing and laugh.

It was Héctor.

* * *

“Bless me, Father for I have sinned.”

The words came with practiced ease; he somehow doubted the rest of the confession would come as easy. “It’s been-- Padre? Are you all right?” Héctor asked, startled, when a sudden sound came from inside the confessional: a noise like spitting, and then a coughing fit.

“I’m-- ack!-- all right! I mean – speak, my child.”

“… Am I smelling wine?”

“No,” Padre Ernesto replied, a little too quickly to be believable. Unseen, Héctor didn’t bother to hold back a smile. Padre Edmundo had a fondness for Mass wine, too, although he did not take it with him inside the confessional. As for himself… well, he never turned down a drink when offered one.

“I must be mistaken,” he finally said.

“You are.” Padre Ernesto cleared his throat. “So, uh. What do you have to confess?”

Well, that sure was enough to take away all amusement. Héctor didn’t even know how to be entirely honest about it without having to expose Father John, and it was just about the last thing he wanted to do: it was his secret to keep or tell, after all. Even if everything he said would stay between him and Padre Ernesto, it seemed wrong to tell.

He felt bad – bad enough to go for confession – and exposing him would only make him feel more guilty.

“I have infringed upon somebody’s privacy,” he finally said. “I sought answers, but I couldn’t-- I mean, rather than asking, I sneaked behind someone’s back to find them.”

“Ah.” There were a few long moments of silence inside the confessional. A bit odd, for a man who hardy ever seemed to quiet down. “And… have you found…?” Padre Ernesto paused. His voice sounded slightly off, but Héctor – who had no idea who he was truly dealing with, who couldn’t imagine Ernesto’s thoughts had turned to an army-issued pistol hidden in his room - assumed it might be the wine.

Not what I was looking for, Héctor thought, but even that felt like too much. “No,” he finally said carefully, telling himself he wasn’t truly lying. “Nothing of any interest.”

“Oh.” Another brief silence, then a chuckle. “I was ready to say I had no idea how that bottle had found its way into my room,” he quipped, and despite the situation – confession was supposed to be quite a serious thing – Héctor found himself snickering.

“Heh. It wasn’t _you,_ Padre,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t even dare think how many Hail Mary would I have to say if I did a such thing to my parish priest.”

“Right.” Another chuckle, like the idea was hilarious. “Probably one or two thousands, just to get started. Is there anything else you wish to confess?”

Héctor opened his mouth to say that no, nothing else came to his mind, except what what _did_ come to his mind very suddenly was Imelda’s face, furious and beautiful, as she stood between him and Rodríguez. “I...” he began, and hesitated, his face suddenly warmer than it had any right to be. He supposed that coveting a novice nun was squarely among the things he was _meant_ to confess… but just the thought of saying as much aloud was enough to make him falter. “Well...”

“You can tell me,” Padre Ernesto said. “You sound troubled – confession will put your mind at ease.”

Héctor doubted it, but oh well, it may be worth a try. He had omitted enough for one confession, anyway… and maybe Padre Ernesto _would_ be able to give him some advice. It was worth a try.

“Well,” Héctor finally said, his voice hesitant. “There is something-- or rather, someone. It is… concerning my vows, really,” he added. No point in keeping up the pretense of anonymity: of course Padre Ernesto must have recognized him.

“Oh? That does sound troublesome,” Padre Ernesto said. Through the wall of the confessional, Héctor couldn’t see the huge grin splitting his face in two - but he heard the sound of the side door being opened, then steps. He looked up, taken aback, to see Padre Ernesto towering over him, holding out his hand to help him up.

“Let’s get in my office,” he said. He didn’t sound angry, or disappointed and concerned as Héctor knew Padre Edmundo would have been. He was smiling, and Héctor wondered just how much he’d been drinking.

“... Are you all right, Padre?”

“Perfectly fine. The question is, are you?” His smile widened, and held his hand a little further down. “Come, and do tell me everything.”

Telling him everything, as it turned out, came a lot easier than Héctor had ever dreamed it would. Maybe it was the glass of wine Padre Ernesto kept filling, maybe it was the fact he really liked the guy, maybe it was the absolute lack of judgment from his part as he talked, and maybe it was all of those things.

Either way, Héctor opened his mouth and spoke for a long time about falling for a girl when he was only a boy himself - knowing he had no chance, because he was an orphan with nothing to his name and she came from a family that, while not rich, was highly regarded. He talked about writing songs about her that he never dared sing out aloud, let alone for her.

“She was too good for me,” he said, staring down at his glass. “There were moments when I thought that maybe I’d have a chance, but then she’d realize she married down, you know? That she could have done better. I didn’t want to trap her for life.”

He talked about wanting to take the vows - to give something back to the church that had raised him since he was a baby, how much he liked helping people, how he’d left for the seminary thinking that… that…

“... That maybe she’d be marred, by the time I came back,” he said, and shrugged. Padre Ernesto nodded, siently urging him to go on, and filled his glass again. Héctor nodded gratefully, and took a swig. “That would have meant… you know, if distance wasn’t enough to fall out of love, maybe I would return and find her married. Then I’d have had to put my mind at ease.”

“But you come back and she wasn’t married.”

For the first time, Héctor hesitated. He’d talked and talked, but said nothing that could identify Imelda because, well… last thing he wanted was getting her in trouble. Not that he thought Padre Ernesto _would_ cause her trouble, but it still wasn’t his place to bring up her name. This was his problem, and his alone. She had enough to worry about as things were - yet another thing he could not talk about.

“She was… sort of,” he finally said, slowly. “It’s complicated. She is off limits, either way.”

Sitting at his desk, Padre Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “Did she tell you that?”

“Well… no. We never talked about it.”

“It’s beginning to sound like you should.”

Héctor gave a brief laugh he didn’t mean at all. “It’s too late, Padre. I’m taking the vows--”

“You haven’t yet. You’re on time to change your mind,” Padre Ernesto cut him off, causing Héctor to blink.

“... That is about the opposite you should be saying.”

“Should I be telling you to plow ahead and take perpetual vows you’re not even sure you want to take?” he replied, and made a face. “Sounds like something Padre Juan would do. I think I’ll pass.”

The mention of Father John caused Héctor to frown a little. “About that… maybe we have been too harsh to him?” he tried, gaining himself a very, very doubtful look.

“Too harsh? That pendejo--”

“I know, I know. But… well…” Héctor paused, not quite sure how much of that was his place to tell him… especially that he now suspected Father John had more than one reason to be quick to leave the room whenever Padre Ernesto showed up. Maybe he could just tell him he had been disowned for converting, but how would he explain knowing it, anyway? The idea of telling more people than he had to left a bad taste in his mouth… and plus, if Padre Ernesto made an effort to be more friendly, it might just make things worse for the gringo. In the end, he shrugged. “He seems very lonely,” was all he said.

“With how much of a pain in the ass he is, no wonder.”

“Heh. That’s what Sister Sofíá said.”

“Great minds think alike. Now, about the subject at hand - it is not too late, for either of you. I think you should talk about it before either of you takes the vows and possibly lives to regret it.”

Héctor let out a groan, the mere idea making him feel like his stomach had turned to lead. “God, I dread nothing more. I wouldn’t even know where to start, and-- what if she says no, that would hurt-- and if she says yes, and we give up our vows, what if we regret it-- she regrets it and--”

_… Wait. Wait wait wait wait wait. Wait._

Héctor trailed off, and looked back at Ernesto with wide eyes. From his part, Padre Ernesto seemed to shrink a little on his seat, like he’d just realized he had spoken too much. “Wait. How do you know about _her_ vows-- I never said-- I never mentioned--” his voice died in his throat, and he could feel his face on fire. “How-- oh. Oh my God!” he groaned, reaching to cover his face with a hand. “Please, tell me I wasn’t that obvious with her!”

“Well…” Padre Ernesto seemed to hesitate.

“Oh God!”

“Not unless one paid attention.”

“And why would you--” realization hit him like a blow, and Héctor let out another long groan. “For the love of-- Miguel told you, didn’t he?”

“... He might have let something slip.”

“I’m going to strangle him.”

“It was entirely by accident!” Padre Ernesto reassured him hurriedly, and there was the weight of a hand on his shoulder. “The niño is concerned, that’s all. You know boys that age are not the best at keeping secrets.”

Héctor sighed, and tore his hand off his face to glance back at Padre Ernesto. “It wouldn’t work. I told him so many times,” he said. “Suppose she somehow says yes - what if she lives to regret marrying me?”

“What if she lives to regret taking the holy vows?” Padre Ernesto shot back, and his grip on Héctor’s shoulder tightened. “What if you both do?”

“W… Well…” Héctor flattered for a moment, then he shook his head. “It will have been her choice,” he said, causing the other man to raise a sceptical eyebrow.

“So would be deciding to give you a chance. I may not know her all that well, but from what I do know, you wouldn’t stand a chance in hell to get her to do anything she doesn’t _want_ to do.”

That was a valid point, Héctor knew, a point everyone - Imelda’s own brothers, Miguel, Sofía, Ceci, Tía Chelo, Chicharrón… - had made before. He knew it to be true, and yet… and yet.

_I don’t want to be her regret in life._

“... No,” he heard himself saying instead, his voice very far away. His face burned. “I couldn’t.”

“You need to man up and ask, Héctor,” Ernesto said, his voice firmer. “Worst that can happen, she says no and everything stays as it is now - without the regret of never asking. You need to seize your moment before it’s too late. Even God cannot find a lost occasion,” he added.

That last statement bordered slightly in blasphemy, but Héctor found he did not care. That was the first time a priest, of all people, told him to give it a try instead of encouraging him to turn his back to childish fantasies and focus on his vows. “... I see. I guess… I guess I should ask. When the time is right.”

_And this is not the right time._

Unaware of his thoughts, Padre Ernesto smiled. “Now that’s music to my ears,” he said, patting his back. “Speaking of music, I was actually thinking about that song you mentioned writing last week…”

* * *

“Sofía!”

“Gah!”

_Clang._

“OUCH!”

“Oh, it’s you. Sorry.”

“Who did you think it wa-- ow! This is gonna leave a bump!”

As Padre Ernesto rubbed his head with a grimace, Sofía shrugged and put down the pan. “You startled me.”

“I hurts!”

“Then stop touching it,” she said lightly, gaining herself a scoff.

“The right thing to say would be ‘sorry’.”

Ay, what an overgrown child. Sofía rolled her eyes. “I did. Did you have any reason to come in slamming the door open while hollering my name?” she asked, and Padre Ernesto made a face.

“As a matter of fact, I have news,” he said. “Juicy ones straight from the confessional.”

“The secret of confession is supposed to be--”

“It’s about Héctor. And possibly Imelda,” Ernesto cut her off, and oooh, that changed _everything._

“What kind of news?”

“Apologize first.”

Sofía raised the pan. Padre Ernesto huffed, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, and she grinned.

“Do tell. I have a few juicy news of my own, too,” she told him, and put the pan down to listen.


	8. Stray Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ernesto isn't as smart as he thinks he is.  
> [Art is by Elletoria (first and last pics) and Senora_Luna (middle pic)]

“He said he loves her!”

“That he did.”

With a shout, Miguel jumped up on the chair and threw up his arms. Ernesto and Sofía exchanged a quick, amused glance when he gave a drum-shattering grito of triumph. “I knew it!”

“I think we all did,” Sofía said, but Miguel had his full attention back on Ernesto.

“And you told him to tell her? Did you really?”

“No, I told him to write his confession on a piece of paper, roll it up and stick it up-- agh!” he yelped when Sofía suddenly pinched his side, hard, and immediately pasted a smile on his face. “I mean-- of course I told him to tell her. That’s what I said I’d do, no?”

Miguel jumped from the chair to the table to be at his same eye level, smile impossibly wide. “And he said he would?”

“When the time is right.”

Just like that, Miguel’s face fell. “What?? Oh, no. That means he’s never going to do it. I know him, he just says that when he’s not going to do anything!”

“Oh, I think I will eventually. It’s just that this has better odds to work if done at the right time,” Ernesto reassured him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I know something of this kind of thing.”

Miguel raised an eyebrow. “You’re a priest,” he quipped, gaining himself an unimpressed glance.

“Not for lack of women willing to throw themselves at me, I assure you,” he said, and pretended not to have heard Sofía’s absolutely fake cough. “Trust me, he’ll just wait for the right moment, and seize it.”

Miguel gave him a long look. “The right moment,” he muttered, then he suddenly gave a bright smile and nodded. “Of course! He just needs the right moment to tell her,” he exclaimed, and jumped off the table, bolting out of the room the next moment. “I need to speak to Óscar and Felipe! Thanks for your help!” he yelled over his shoulder, causing Ernesto to blink at his retreating back.

“You’re... welcome?” he called out after him, and shrugged. “Who are Óscar and Felipe again?”

“Imelda’s brothers.”

“Oh, right.” A pause. “You don’t think they’re going to do something stupid, do you?”

“You know they probably will.”

“As long as they don’t let Héctor know his confession didn’t stay a secret,” Ernesto grumbled. Last thing he needed was useless drama and additional headache.

Sofía shrugged. “I’m sure he won’t. Well, I hope he won’t, but it’s too late to take that back anyway. Now, Padre,” she added, poking his chest, “it’s time for you to get into the confessional.”

“Uugh. Do I have to?”

“Are you or are you not the parish priest?”

 _No._ “All right,” Ernesto grumbled, standing up. Maybe he’d get to hear something interesting and, if not, at least he would keep Padre Juan from holding confession and causing more trouble. Speaking of which… “Where’s the gringo? I haven’t seen him all day. Or yesterday. Or-”

“What, do you miss him?”

Ernesto snorted. “Like I miss lice,” he muttered. That man was such an absolute pain in the ass, it was no wonder his own family had written him off. Ernesto was ready to bet that his conversion to Catholicism - lucky them, huh? - had only been an excuse to finally get him out of their hair. “Doubt even his mother misses him.”

Sofía rolled her eyes. “Careful there. You’re not supposed to know that, I am not supposed to know about Héctor’s confession--”

“And neither of us is supposed to know Miguel caught the gringo smoking in the grove,” Ernesto cut her off, holding back a chuckle. Amazing, how no secret seemed to stay such in that parish. Except for his own, of course. That one _had_ to be protected - whatever the cost.

Unaware of his thoughts, Sofía was shrugging. “No worries, I know when to keep my mouth shut. Didn’t go around telling anyone about that _blessing_ at the Marques household, did I? Unlike a certain someone who went and boasted the second he returned,” she added.

All right, fine,so maybe he shouldn’t have told her that, but it wasn’t every day you went to someone’s house to give a blessing and end up bedding the woman who asked for it while her husband is in the fields.

“Por favor, Padre - my husband and I have been trying for children for years. If you could come bless our bed, I would be so grateful. I don’t know what else to do,” Mónica Marques had implored, her voice trembling, and of course he couldn’t really say no.

He’d picked up the holy water to spray - he supposed a generic blessing for fertility in plain Spanish would do, without Padre Culo Blanco breathing down his neck - and showed up at her place. He’d expected it to be a quick job; he hadn’t expected to turn to the woman to have her say a prayer with him or something, and realize that she’d taken off her shawl. And blouse.

And was halfway out of her gown.

Honestly, some women clearly had a thing for priests and well, he was only flesh. What was a man to do if not accept the offer?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ernesto finally said, shrugging off the memory. “She was asking for a blessing, and I gave one.”

"Padre. What you described sounded just about nothing like a blessing."

"It does when I'm involved."

"As if."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Ernesto frowned. “I’m pretty sure you said _something,_ sister.”

“Well. If I may speak freely--”

“You always do,” he grumbled, only for Sofía to entirely ignore him.

“-- You and I have different opinions on what’s good enough to be considered a  blessing.”

“Hey!”

Sofía shrugged. “Told you I’d speak freely. Now go and confess sinners, Padre. Did you at least give her absolution, by the way?”

“Of course!”

“Did you bother to get dressed first?”

“That’s entirely irrelevant,” Ernesto scoffed, but he finally sighed and stood. “Ah, well, back to my duties. Maybe I’ll get to hear something interesting,” he added, but of course he highly doubted anything he may hear would be quite as surprising as the _blessing_ the previous day.

He was so, so wrong.

* * *

“He loves her!”

“Duh.”

“We already knew.”

“Everyone did.”

“... What are the three of you doing in my shack again?”

Chicharrón’s grumble caused Miguel, Óscar and Felipe to turn to look at him. He was sitting on an old chair, scowling and massaging his stump, peg leg on the floor next to him.

“We’re not in your shack,” Felipe pointed out.

“We’re right outside it,” his brother echoed.

“On the porch. That’s still my property,” Chicharrón snorted, and turned his attention back to Miguel. “Run this by me again. Padre Ernesto told Héctor it may be best if both he and Imelda dropped the vows and got married?”

“Yes. I mean…” Miguel raked his brain for an explanation that did _not_ boil down to ‘if he’s a priest you’re Emiliano Zapata’. “He said that if you’re not sure you want to take the vows you shouldn’t do it, you know?”

“Well, I’ll be. A priest with half a brain,” Cheech muttered, and started pressing fresh tobacco in his old pipe. “Not sure Héctor will ask. The boy turns into a complete chicken in front of Imelda.”

_“Bwaaak!”_

“Lo siento, Juanita. I didn’t mean you,” Cheech said, entirely ignoring the glance the boys exchanged as he reassuringly patted the rooster’s head. “What I’m saying is, I wouldn’t put money on Héctor telling her a thing, even with Padre Ernesto telling him to.”

Miguel grinned. “He needs to find the right moment, so this is the time to act!” he exclaimed, jumped on the porch before he reached to pull both Óscar and Felipe closer. “We must _make_ the right moment happen!”

Both twins’ face lit up like candles. “Oooh, is it a mission?”

“A secret mission!” Miguel grinned. “To get him to confess! And propose!”

“She’ll say yes!”

“She’s got to!”

“This is the best idea you ever had!”

“This is the recipe for trouble, but at this point anything goes,” Chicharrón muttered, putting the pipe in his mouth. “All reasonable attempts failed, so may as well-- what the-- give it back!”

His yell caused Miguel to blink and turn where Cheech was pointing an accusing finger. A few feet from them, was his peg leg - in the mouth of a scrawny, hairless dog with a furiously wagging tail. “Oooh, a Xolo!”

“A thief, more like! Get it to give me my leg back!” Cheech barked, causing Juanita to squawk - that was odd, he was usually so aggressive but hadn’t made a peep while the dog approached - and the dog to wag its tail even more furiously before he barked through the wooden limb and darted off, away from the cemetery. “AH, PINCHE-- don’t stand there, go get it back!”

“Sí, señor!”

“Right away!”

“You wait here!” Miguel yelled over his shoulder as they ran after the dog, leaving behind a very disgruntled man wondering aloud how roasted Xoloitzcuintli would taste as he lit his pipe and took a long drag.

* * *

“So he’s a convert - is that all?”

Contrary to popular belief, Héctor could make a very good liar; the fact alone it _was_ contrary to popular belief was testament to that. Still, with Imelda’s gaze on him, Héctor found it very difficult not to squirm. She could read him better than most back when they were kids, on the few occasions when she was allowed to play with an orphan like him, and all of his acting skills seemed to disappear whenever around her.

He hated having to lie to her, but this time, he had to. Father John’s inclination was clearly a source of great turmoil to him, and it could destroy him if word came out. Not that he thought Imelda would go around talking about it, but it was his secret to keep, and… well, it was of no relevance to them, none at all. There was no point in spreading it.

“Yes, that is all - I already told Sofía,” he finally said. “And his family disowned him.”

Something in Imelda’s gaze softened for a moment in a look of pity. It was gone quickly, behind a somewhat guarded expression, but it wasn’t lost to him and oh God, she loved her all the more for those glimpses. He should tell her that, for sure. He _had_ to tell her.

 _“At worst, she says no and all stays as it is,”_ Padre Ernesto had said, and Héctor knew he was right… but what he couldn’t admit was that a _no_ would have felt like a knife between his ribs.

_Not yet. When the time is right._

“So, that’s what the letter is about?”

“Yes.” That, at least, was not a lie. By itself, the letter could very well have been about the different religious stance or… anything, really. It was only the underlined passage from the Leviticus that had given Héctor the context he needed to understand. “I don’t know why he kept it all this time, but… it’s an entirely personal matter. Nothing to do with us, or what is going on here. You can tell _them_ that we have nothing to fear from him.”

“Except for the usual headache,” Imelda muttered, a half smile on her face. “I can’t pretend I didn’t wish we had an excuse to be rid of him for good, but I wasn’t looking forward to sign his death warrant. Maybe he’ll grow tired and move on,” she added, her tone hopeful. She glanced back at the group of children playing swords with a bunch of sticks, perched on each other’s shoulders like knights on their horse as they had a go at each other in the middle of the church’s courtyard. “At least I never had to deal with him personally. If I had to, I don’t know if I could--”

“Ah, Brother Hector! And… Sister Giselle, is it?”

Héctor cringed inwardly at the expression that crossed Imelda’s face when Father John’s voice rang out. She was able to wipe it away before turning, but she was unable to keep some coldness out of her voice. The sun still shone, but Héctor had the distinct feeling the temperature around them had dropped by several degrees.

“Sister Gisela,” Imelda pointed out, only for Father John to nod absentmindedly and turn his full attention on Héctor, like she were a potted plant rather than a person who had just sharply corrected him. He was even paler than usual, and seemed shaken, fidgeting with his sleeve.

His smile looked forced, and it didn’t take a genius to realize he was trying, and failing, to strike up a conversation to distract himself from whatever bothered him.“I was just passing by, and… well, I observed the children wasting their time on such brutish games, and--”

“Play fighting,” Imelda said, her voice a few degrees colder. “I am certain that is something children have in common everywhere.”

This time, Father John couldn’t ignore her, and turned to her with a rather septic smile. “Children everywhere need guidance,” he conceded. He turned back him. “I had an idea,” he added, and Héctor had to suppress a shudder. “As these unfortunate children can’t read or write--”

“We _do_ teach them, in the orphanage,” Imelda interjected.

“I am certain you do. But I was thinking Brother Hector and I may teach them some Latin, as well as some English. They only speak Spanish, after all,” he added. He said it in a tone that made it obvious he had very little regard for the language, and Héctor could almost picture thunderclouds forming above Imelda’s head when she opened her mouth to speak.

Luckily for all of them, she never got to. _“Ruff! Ruff!”_

“Hey, come back! Someone stop him!”

“Imelda!”

“Héctor, watch out!”

“Wha--”

He didn’t get to see what hit him. One moment he was standing and the next _something_ had slammed into him, knocking him off his legs and all air out of his lungs; he got an instant to stare up at the sky before the ground rushed up to meet him, and something - _someone_ \- landed on top of him. “Oof!”

“Ow…!”

“Sorry, Héctor!”

“Lo siento, hermana!”

_“WOOF!”_

“I got him! I got him!”

“Come on, give me the leg, give it-- oh, good! Good boy!”

Héctor groaned, lifting himself on his elbows and blinking, trying to regain bearing of his surroundings. He blinked fast, and looked up to find himself staring very closely at Imelda’s face as she grimaced and rubbed her head, the headdress askew to let a few locks of hair fall out.

“Uh,” he managed, realizing very suddenly it was her weight keeping him pinned to the ground. She didn’t seem to take notice, and reached to fix the headdress.

“What just happened?” she asked, and looked down at him. And stilled. And fell silent.

“Ah,” she said, and after another few moments she quickly pulled back and stood. The weight gone, Héctor stood somewhat shakily, clearing his throat. His eyes darted around, and he found himself blinking when they found the cause of all that mess: a hairless dog standing in the middle of the yard, tail wagging and tongue flailing as children ran to pet it and Miguel stood by it, panting, something in his hand that looked an awful lot like Cheech’s peg leg.

“What. Is. That,” Imelda all but snarled, causing her brothers - both still trying to catch their breath - to recoil. They made a rather brave attempt at a smile.

“A dog?”

“He took Chicharrón’s leg, and we chased him, and--”

“Can we keep him?” Miguel was calling out. “Héctor, look! He likes me! Can he stay? We’ll feed him and look after him and--”

As he kept pleading and half the orphanage joined in, none of them saw Father John - who had become even more deathly pale at the sight of a dog - recoiling as the town clock chimed, and leaving quietly to head inside the church, doing his utmost to go unnoticed.

* * *

“Bless me, Padre for I have sinned.”

“Something something, the Lord, something. Go on.”

Outside the confessional, Sofía gave a small chuckle. “I have committed sins of the flesh.”

“You don’t say,” Ernesto muttered, grinning a little. He knew it already, of course - he’d been there. Still, it was a reprieve from what a series of very full confessions. “And with whom?”

“Do you want the short list, or the long one?”

“... Never mind.” Ernesto rolled his eyes. Way to kill the mood, he thought, glancing at the wall. “You don’t sound very contrite. Why should I absolve you?”

“Oh, shall I repent and promise to never do it again?”

Ernesto held back a guffawing laugh. “I don’t think you can.”

“I mean, never with you aga--”

“Absolved,” Ernesto cut her off, and they shared a snicker. He took another swig from the bottle. “You know, you could get in here with me if no one else is waiting for confession.”

“Isn’t that a too harsh penance?”

“You’re hilarious,” Ernest said flatly. He didn’t see her shrug, but he could picture it so well from her tone alone.

“I know. Also, no. Someone else is waiting for confession, so have fun. See you at dinner.”

The next person turned out to be an old guy with a tendency to cheat people in the market out of small change. Ernesto listened, gave a penance of three Hail Mary, blessed the guy, and waited for the next one to kneel at the confessional… except that nothing happened for a while.

 _Well, that’s it. I’m done for the day,_ Ernesto thought, and he was just about to get out when suddenly there were steps, and creaking wood as someone knelt. All right, so he wasn’t done at all. With an inward sigh, Ernesto sat again.

There were a couple more moments of silence, a long sigh, before a male voice finally reached him - low, slow, little more than a whisper. It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but it wasn’t one he recognized, either. Either the guy had a bad sore throat, or he was trying pretty hard not to make his identity known. “Pordóneme, Padre, porque he pecado,” he whispered. “It’s been… a while since my last confession.”

“Uh… speak freely, my child.”

_Maybe the old gravedigger? No, he sounds more like he swallowed a porcupine. Can’t picture that guy coming to confession, anyway._

“I was…” the voice got even lower. Something was off about it, but it was too muffed for Ernesto to put his finger on it. “I sinned in thought, Padre. I have been having… lustful thoughts.”

All right, now Ernesto really hoped that was _not_ old Chicharrón, because that wasn’t a mental image he needed… although, to be fair, he may or may not have cracked a couple of crass jokes about that demonic rooster the old man insisted on calling _Juanita._ It had stopped being funny when some guy whose identity he hadn’t wanted to guess had come in with a confession that involve a donkey.

“I see,” Ernesto said slowly, reaching to pick up the bottle of mass wine from the floor. Still half full, thank God, in case he needed it urgently. Whoever was on the other side sounded too anguished for a plain old confession of lust towards some pretty girl. “What sort of thoughts?”

Another brief silence, a shaky breath, an unintelligible mumble.

Ernesto frowned. “I couldn’t hear you,” he said, faintly wondering if he wanted to hear in the first place. There was a sharp intake of air, and something not too far away from a sob.

“Thoughts about-- another man,” he managed, causing Ernesto to still and blink.

Oh, he thought. Oh. Right. That made… more sense. With no small measure of relief, he cleared his throat. “I see. That is--”

“An abomination.” The man was weeping now, he could tell, the voice still as hushed. “I have tried so hard… I thought I was cured… I don’t know what else to do. I need…” a shuddering breath, a sniffle. “I need penance, and… and absolution… and advice… on how to fix...” the man’s voice faded, and he suddenly began to sob, harsh broken sounds that seemed to tear all air out of his lungs. Ernesto sighed.

_Ay, you’re asking the wrong man. I’ve had more than thoughts, and like hell I told a priest._

Of course, saying that was out of question. “All right, all right,” he muttered, and took a quick swig from the bottle - _don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks_ \- just as the man began to downright sob. He raked his brain for something to say. “Don’t despair. It’s-- er…”

_Not that bad? Can’t say that as a priest. Think of something else, tell him to pray it away._

“Well. Did you ever, er, act on such thoughts?”

“I-- no! Never!” the man exclaimed, his voice suddenly louder, cracking. “I would  never-- I never! I always resisted! Only in my sleep, I rarely-- when I had no control-- over my… my…”

The voice faded into silence, but it was too late. In his rush to explain himself, its owner had neglected to muffle it quite as well, and it was impossible not to recognize. That accent that had come through couldn’t belong to anyone else, and to be honest Ernesto _really_ should have recognized it sooner.

_“Juan?”_ Ernesto heard himself blurting out, so surprised he didn’t even register the bottle slipping from his fingers, the dull thud of thick glass on the wooden floor and the sloshing of spilled contents. There was a gasp on the other side, a noise like that of a scared dog, and suddenly the creaking of old wood, hurried steps, a door being thrown open and closed again.

For a long time Ernesto just sat in the dim light inside the confessional, blinking, trying to come to terms with what he’d just heard.

* * *

“Absolutely not! This is a parish, not some kind of refuge for mangy coyotes!”

“He’s not a coyote! And-- and he’s not mangy! He’s _meant_ to be hairless and you know it!”

“Could have fooled me,” Gustavo grumbled, glaring at the dog - who, in turn, growled at him from behind Miguel. Didn’t like him, huh? Well, the feeling was mutual.

Of course, that wasn’t enough to get the kid to relent. He was almost as annoying as Héctor, and twice as stubborn. “Héctor said we can feed him!” was the next, predictable retort. Gustavo snorted and glared at Héctor, who shrugged.

“It’s not like we’re taking him inside the church. If he sticks around, I see nothing wrong with leaving out a few scraps--”

“That’s not the point!” Gustavo snapped. Sure, the golden boy would tell those brats to keep the dog, of course - not like it would be a problem for him. Oh no, it would be Gustavo to have to pick up the pieces and clean up whatever disaster that beast caused. Well, he wasn’t going to let him get away with that crap now - and he didn’t care how much a bunch of stupid kids, or that damn nun who could never shut up, glared at him. He had enough work to do as it was, more than enough to worry about. “You don’t take decisions! You’re not even a priest yet!” Gustavo growled. “If I catch that mangy thing anywhere around here, I’m going to make sure it never comes back to bother anyone!”

“You don’t make the rules, either!” Miguel snapped. “You’re just the sexton!”

Three things happened quickly: Gustavo stepped forward, moving to raise his hand; Héctor stepped between him and the kid; and, most of all, a voice rose up like the crack of a whip.

“You won’t _dare,_ Gustavo,” Imelda - or Sister Gisela or whatever the hell she should be called now - snapped, and it was that, more than anything, to make him still. He turned to glare at her, only to get a cold gaze right back. “Accidents happen,” she said, her voice oddly sweet. “So you better not get any ideas involving the rat poison you keep on the shed.”

Wait, was that-- was the _threatening_ him now? All eyes on him, Gustavo scowled and opened his mouth to snap back - when suddenly he caught glimpse of Father John walking out of the church and across the yard, and smirked. “Well, let’s see what Padre Ju-- Father John says!”

Miguel scowled. “Padre Juan isn’t the parish priest! Padre Ernesto is! He gets to decide!” he exclaimed. The dog barked as though in agreement. “We’ll ask him and I’m sure he’ll say-- er… is he… is he all right?” the boy added, the tirade turning into somewhat hesitant stammering.

“Huh?” Gustavo blinked, and looked back. Now that Father John was closer, he could tell that he didn’t look good at all. He was walking away from the church as fast as one could without running, hand tightly clenched together on the crucifix at his neck, eyes wide and skin white as a sheet - which wasn’t a huge change from usual, but a change nonetheless.

“He looks upset,” one of Imelda’s brother, hell knew which one, muttered.

“He looks _ill,_ ” the other echoed.

“... Father John?” Héctor called out, taking a step forward, and the gringo recoiled as though he’d heard a shout, stopping to look at them. His reddened eyes paused on all of them - the three adults, the kids, the ugly-ass dog - but didn’t seem to really take in any of them. “Are you… is everything all right?” he asked. Nothing was all right, very clearly, but of course that was not the answer. Father John gave them the emptiest smile Gustavo could recall ever seeing.

“Yes, I… my apologies. I do feel quite faint. A walk will do me good.”

“If you’re feeling faint, that is about the last thing you should do,” Héctor pointed out. “Would you like me to help you back in? Maybe Padre Ernesto can--”

“No, no. I-- just-- If you’ll excuse me,” the man mumbled, and just walked fast past them all, away from the yard and heading towards the outskirts of the town. The dog whined and Gustavo blinked, then turned slowly to look at Héctor, who seemed just as taken aback.

“Any idea what that was about?” Imelda asked, and they could only shake their head.

“No clue,” Héctor said. Gustavo scratched his head.

“Maybe he walked into _Sister_ Sofía having fun,” he muttered. Miguel blinked up at him.

“What’s so wrong with having fun?” he asked, confused. Behind him the twins had slapped a hand on each other’s mouth not to laugh, Héctor frantically shook his head, and Imelda downright made a slashing motion across her throat with a finger. Gustavo swallowed.

“Ah, er... nothing at all. You-- were going to ask Padre Ernesto about keeping the dog, sí?”

To his relief, the kid didn’t press the matter: he just gave a grito before ran off towards the church, barking dog in tow, and no one tried to stop him.

* * *

“... And I wanted to call him Dante, like your horse! Oooh, look! He likes the name! Dante! Dante, sit!”

As the pup dropped on the ground, flopping like a fish out of water, Ernesto smiled and finished the wine. He’d always had a soft spot for dogs himself, so he couldn’t say he minded letting this one wander around the parish. And even if he did then it wouldn’t matter anyway, because he had something else entirely in his mind.

Padre Juan, a _maricón._ Now that was some news he hadn’t been expecting. Absolutely none of his business and he had no high ground to stand on - _don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks_ \- but still, it had sort of blindsided him. And now, to be honest, he was slightly worried over who may be the object of his lust. Not that he could think of many options: the guy ducked out of whatever room he was in the moment Ernesto walked in, but he had insisted to give Héctor English lesson, one on one. Therefore…

_He wants Héctor. It’s obvious. Well, sorry, gringo, but he’ll be taken soon._

The thought was amusing, but he wasn’t _that_ worried; given how anguished he’d sounded throughout the confession, good old Juan was more likely to cut off his right hand than to attempt anything. For a moment - all right, maybe a couple of moments - Ernesto even felt sorry for him. Seeing him again was going to be awkward as hell, no question, but once he told Sofía they could at least have a laugh and… and…

“... Hey, are you listening?’

“Huh?” Ernesto recoiled, and looked down to see Miguel raising an eyebrow at him, still scratching Dante’s back. The dog's hind leg twitched, tongue splayed out across the floor.

“You weren’t listening at all.”

“Not past the name,” he admitted with a shrug. “I was wondering where my Dante went.”

Miguel’s expression immediately turned sadder. “Maybe he’s fine and will come back,” he said, hopeful as only kids can be. Ernesto had strong doubts, but he smiled a little.

“Here’s hoping. What else can your dog do?”

That caused the boy to pause. “My dog?”

“Well, he seems to have picked you,” Ernesto replied, and as the kid seemed to glow a little at the thought - _his dog!_ \- he took another sip wine. No, he thought, better not tell Sofía a thing. She may know how to keep her mouth shut, but with the gringo universally despised as he was, Ernesto could only imagine how tempting it would be to say something if he stepped out of line.

But this was more than a funny story: it was something that could completely destroy Padre Juan, there in Mexico and back in his country as well. It was the heavy artillery, so to speak, it may be wise to keep it under wraps, for now. Unless he freaked out and revealed himself to everyone and their dog, of course, which was not beyond the realms of possibility.

“I wonder where he came from,” Miguel was saying, rubbing the ecstatic dog’s chest. “I have never seen him around here.”

“Well, stray dogs do wander. It’s what makes them strays.”

“But he’ll never have to stray anymore! He’s home now, isn’t he?”

Ernesto smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. _Dog_ was an insult he got often from civilians while in the army, because of course he would. It was fitting, after all. Huerta’s dogs, on a tight leash. _Too_ tight, and so Huerta’s dog had turned stray - wandering all the way to Santa Cecilia.

_He’s home now, isn’t he?_

Something clenched in Ernesto’s chest. “I suppose he is,” he said slowly, and emptied the glass.

* * *

“No, no, no! Are they all drunk? We can’t got back!”

“Those are the orders, and you will obey as the rest of the Regiment.”

“We need to keep going south! We’re rooting out rebels in each and every village - at this rate we’ll leave none in all of Oaxaca! This is far more useful than going to Veracruz!”

“In case the Constitutional Army tries anything, the port must be protected--”

“Then someone else can do it, we’re already doing our part--”

_“Enough, Santiago!”_

Nando’s snarl caused Santiago to trail off, more out of surprise than actual fear, because Nando rarely raised his voice. But now he was scowling, and it was clear he wouldn’t listen to any of his reasons. “I’m not an idiot, boy. I know exactly _why_ you want to keep searching Oaxaca. It has nothing to do with rebels and everything to do with one deserter.”

“Everything to do with a murderer.”

_Beto’s blood on the sand. His body with his face to the ground. The carrion birds already descending on him. The letter to tell his mother, written and torn and rewritten so many times._

Unaware of his thoughts, or perhaps all too aware, Nando scoffed. “Find me _one_ man of arms with clean hands these days.”

Something twisted in Santiago’s stomach. “He killed him like a dog!”

“You shot a woman in the face.”

 _And I see her every night._ “That’s not the same thing! She threw herself at me--”

“On her knees, to beg you to spare her husband--”

“I had no time to think! She could have been armed!”

“... Or maybe you were just too angry to be lucid, because he was not there,” Nando replied.

Santiago fell silent for a few moments. It was true - he knew it to be true - but he refused to dwell on it. “Taking pity on rebels now?” he asked instead, coldly.

“No. You take pity on no one if you want to survive this.” Nando made a face that might, with some imagination, have been a bitter smile. “It’s you I’m worried about. The war comes first - then your personal vendetta.”

“He’s out there somewhere.”

“We don’t even know for sure he headed south. He might have gone west to Yucatán, or taken the long way around to go back north - hell, for all we know he may have crossed the border into Guatemala, and good luck getting him then.”

“I’ll follow him to the ends of Earth.”

“But you don’t know where he may be. You’re _guessing_ he’s somewhere south of here, but--”

“I _know_ it!”

“Oh, did you have a prophetic dream? Holy Mary told you? Can you tell me my fortune?” Nando snapped, only to sigh when Santiago scowled, clenching his fists. “Look. We don’t know where he is. If you’re meant to find him, you will and I promise I’ll be by your side to have him hanged, as Beto’s friend and yours. But until then, I am your superior. You are a soldier, you will do what you’re told, and you’re coming to Veracruz,” he added, and turned, walking away.

 _I could shoot him now and leave anyway,_ Santiago thought, and his fingers twitched by the gun at his hip. It was so very tempting, but then the thought struck him - _is this what de la Cruz thought, too, before he shot?_ \- and he let his hand fall down his side like a dead weight, head spinning and fingers limp.

* * *

Padre Juan showed his face again at dinner time, and it was enough for Ernesto to wonder if he’d hallucinated the entire confession that morning: he sure was acting like nothing at all had happened. He barely glanced in his direction but, well, that was the usual. He sat stiffly in the chair, back never touching the backrest, and spoke to Héctor only about some bullshit idea to teach kids Latin.

Yes, it almost made him wonder if he’d been wrong… but then Héctor asked good old Juan how he was feeling, that he’d seemed ill earlier, and that was all he needed to hear. The way the gringo winced when asked and quickly dismissed it as a headache only confirmed his thoughts.

That had been his voice, his accent; the confession had been his, Ernesto was sure of it. The gringo was a better actor than he gave him credit for, that was all, and he wasn’t the only one who could put up an act. So he acted like nothing was wrong, too - until dinner was over, Héctor stood to leave, and Ernesto spoke. “Padre Juan. May I have a word?”

And oh, _that_ worked. The gringo stiffened like he’d just heard him uttering his death sentence, growing paler for a moment, and spoke in a tight voice. “It’s Father John. And yes. You may.”

Héctor gave him a somewhat curious gaze - did he seem slightly alarmed? - but left them alone, closing the door behind himself. Padre Juan folded his hands tightly, in what Ernesto guessed was a pitiful attempt at keeping them from shaking. “What is it?” he asked, voice more controlled. Did he _really_ hope he could make him think he’d been mistaken?

Ernesto shrugged, and gave his most reassuring smile. “I simply wondered if you need any counsel. You seem upset,” he added. Funny thing to say to the guy he’d slammed against the wall only weeks earlier, but the whole situation was odd and the gringo did not remark on that.

“I-- I had a brief episode of vertigo earlier today,” he said, gaze resting on absolutely everything in the room except Ernesto. “I will be fine after a good night’s sleep, and I am-- quite tired.”

“... I understand. But surely, if something is bothering you, you’ll let me know. Won’t you?”

That caused the man to look up at him. For just a moment his expression twisted into something so painful it was gut-wrenching, but then it was gone, and he looked away. “... I will keep it in mind. Will that be all?”

Ernesto nodded. “That will be all,” he said, gaining himself a brief nod before Padre Juan left the room in silence. Not a bad actor overall, but it would take more to fool Ernesto de la Cruz. He knew what he was and he knew what he desired - Héctor, clearly.

“Can’t hide a thing from me,” Ernesto muttered to the empty room, and poured himself a glass.

* * *

“All right, time to--”

“Ow!”

“What?”

“Your elbow is in my ribs.”

“Sorry. Should have built this doghouse bigger.”

“Well, we’re not supposed to be in it.”

“And yet here we are.”

“... Why are you here?”

Sitting cross-legged with Dante leaning on him, Miguel grinned. “To make plans! We must create the right moment for Héctor and Imelda, so he can _seize_ it!” he exclaimed, and put his arms around the twins’ necks, pulling them close. “Now, here’s my idea…”


	9. Bad Matchmaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry for the wait on this one! Life happened. As in, death happened and messed things up a bit, as a death in the family tends to do. But I think I'm back on track.  
> Art at the end of the chapter is by Senora_Luna!

“All right, I’m writing this.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because your handwriting is _too_ obviously not a grown-up’s.”

“You’re not to grown-ups either.”

“But we’re close enough!”

“We can fake it!”

“More or less.”

“We can try.”

Miguel huffed, crossing his arms. “Imelda is your sister. She’ll recognize your handwriting.”

“Not if we make it look like Héctor’s! We have seen it before. Let us try…”

They did try, all right, but none of their attempts came out looking even remotely like Héctor’s handwriting. Soon enough they were leaning against the fence with utterly defeated expressions, scattered pieces of paper around them and Dante snoozing contentedly across all of their laps. Miguel sighed, reaching to scratch his ears. They weren’t even sure if Héctor and Imelda knew each other’s handwriting well enough to recognize it, but they couldn’t risk it.

“We might have hit a snag,” he conceded.

“Maybe Cheech can do it?” Óscar suggested.

“Cheech can’t write,” Felipe droned.

“He can read.”

“Barely.”

“He’s always getting Héctor to read stuff for him.”

Silence.

“... Gustavo can write.”

“He’d never help us. No one is supposed to know it anyway, except for us and Sister Sofía and--” Miguel sat upright suddenly, eyes wide. “Padre Ernesto!”

“What?”

“Where?”

“No, no, he’s not here, I mean-- he will help us!”

“... He will?”

“I’ll ask him to try writing it! He just needs to see Héctor’s handwriting.”

The twins exchanged a glance before looking back at him. “He’s a priest.”

 _No he’s not,_ Miguel thought, but of course he knew better than saying it aloud. He had promised Ernesto that his secret was safe with him, and he would keep that promise. “So what? He said that if one isn’t sure about taking the vows, they shouldn’t do it. He’s on our side!”

“Wouldn’t faking a message amount to, you know…”

“Forgery?”

“That too. I was thinking more of ‘lying’. Does the Bible say forgery is a sin?”

“You mean, forgery specifically? I’m not sure, but if we check--”

Miguel shrugged and stood, causing Dante’s head to drop down on the ground with a dull - and quite hollow-sounding - thump. It didn’t stop him from wagging his tail furiously, thumping it against Felipe’s leg. “So what if it is? He can absolve himself,” he said. “Perks of the job. I think,” he added, and he sprinted towards the parish without waiting for a reply.

* * *

The English lessons had turned, if possible, even more boring.

And utterly useless, too, now that he had read what he’d been meant to read. But Father John was clearly glad for the company, so Héctor supposed he could endure it just for a little while longer. Especially since he had seemed so upset the previous day; he hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and Héctor knew better than prodding, but it was clear something had unsettled him greatly.

Even so, there were limits to what he could take, so he’d claimed to have a headache - he had made a point to show an uncomfortable expression when walking in, so that it wouldn’t seem to have come entirely out of the blue - and excused himself, heading towards his own room.

Only to see Miguel stepping out of the hallway leading to it, glancing around. Had he come to look for him? Probably, yes. He’d neglected him lately, and he was… sorry about that.

_Well, time to make up for it_

“Miguel!” Héctor called out, smiling. It had been some time since he and Miguel got to spend some time together, and he’d missed the chamaco. He’d missed their lazy afternoons without much to do, when they would just practice with their guitars, or Miguel would watch him writing a new songs, occasionally providing help with the lyrics.

He was almost as good at it as he was at playing, and Héctor planned to help him write his own songs when he was a bit old--

Miguel almost jumped in the air as his voice rang out, and turned, blinking at him for a moment before he gave a very, very wide smile. If not for the fact he was still mulling how how they had seen each other relatively little later, Héctor might have noticed something suspicious about that smile.

But he didn’t.

“Héctor! I wes, er. Looking for Padre Ernesto. Have you seen him?”

Actually, come to think of him, he hadn't - and as much as he liked him, he was rather relieved he did not. It wasn't that he was jealous that he seemed to have become Miguel's hero in a matter of weeks, but... all right, yes, so maybe he was a little jealous.

_Had it coming for hardly speaking to the chamaco these days. Here's the chance to make up for it._

"No, I haven't. But hey, get this-- I was thinking of a new song! I have yet to write it, it's only sort of stuck in my head right now, but I think you'd like it. How about we got over to Cheech's, get our guitars, and try it out?" he added.

Until not too long ago, Miguel would have jumped on the chance; they would have made their way to Cheech’s place, laughing and joking, and then they would have practiced playing and singing until someone came looking for him, or for Héctor… or for both. Sometimes la Madre Superiora herself would come looking for them, and they would put up a contrite expression at her tirate, struggling not to smile at each other. Not this time, though.

"Great, great! We'll do that later. Got to find Padre Ernesto," Miguel said quickly, sprinting past him and around the corner. "Keep up the good work!" he heard him yelling as his footsteps faded away - leaving Héctor to stand there on his own, utterly confused and more hurt than he wanted to admit to himself.

It felt like the closest he’d ever had to family was slipping away from him, and he didn’t know what to do.

* * *

“You stole--”

“Borrowed.”

“... Right. You _borrowed_ Héctor’s songbook because you want me to try doing his handwriting?”

“I want you to _succeed_ at doing his handwriting!”

“Couldn’t you just write in upper case like last time? It worked.”

Miguel blinked. “Oh. I… er… I want it to look more authentic.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “I get the feeling you didn’t think your brilliant plan all the way through,” he muttered, causing the boy to huff and cross his arms.

“Because _you_ think _all_ of your plans through,” he muttered, raising both eyebrows. That left Ernesto unsure whether to kick him under the table or grab him by the neck to shake him a little, given that Sofía was right by and listening, but in the end he opted to smile with clenched teeth.

“Fair enough,” he growled, shooting a glance towards Sofía. She was listening with her chin in hand, clearly not having caught the meaning behind Miguel’s remark. Granted, it would take quite a leap of logic and imagination to do so... but it was still a risk he didn’t want to take. He’d need to have a serious talk with Miguel about watching his words, remind him he held his _life_ in his hands, and if he didn’t listen--

The thought of the pistol hidden away in his room flashed through his mind, and suddenly he could smell gunpowder, and taste bile. He quickly went to wipe his lips with the back of his hand and looked down at the songbook. Anything not to look at the boy. “... All right. I’ll give it a go.”

“Gracias!” Miguel exclaimed, then, “Sofía, about Imelda’s handwriting, would you try--”

“I’ll do it,” she said, and shrugged when both the kid and Ernesto blinked at her. “I practiced. I can fake the handwriting of every nun in town, and working on Madre Gregoria’s.”

“... Dare I ask why?”

“I consider it an insurance.”

Making a mental note to be careful not to leave samples of _his_ handwriting within her reach, Ernesto looked back down at the songbook - though to be honest, he didn’t pay as much attention to the handwriting as he did to the words, and the notes. He hummed the beginning of one of the songs, low enough not to be heard and Christ, it was _good._

Héctor had so much talent for songwriting that letting him join the church and never use it for anything would be a crime against music itself. Not that marriage was a much better trap, in Ernesto’s opinion, but at least it wasn’t mutually exclusive with secular music.

“Do you want me to slip the note in her room?” Sofía was asking, snapping Ernesto from his thoughts. He looked up just on time to see Miguel shaking his head, and grinning.

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I have a better plan.”

Ernesto and Sofía exchanged a quick look before glancing back.

“Define ‘better’,” he said.

“Define ‘plan’,” she added.

Miguel grinned. “No need to be worried! I’ve been working on this with Óscar and Felipe.”

“Now I’m terrified,” Sofía said drily, getting a shrug out of him.

“Don’t worry, all will work out,” he grinned. “Here’s what you need to write…”

It wasn’t that much of a great plan, all things considered, but Ernesto had to admit the niño was right on one thing: without a shove in the right direction, it was entirely possible that _idiota_ would just never confess a thing. And that would be stupid, really.

If that songbook was anything to go by, he knew how to use words.

* * *

“What. Is. That.”

“Miguel’s dog. I… I think,” Sofía managed. One talent-- fine, one of _several_ talents she prided herself to possess - was a  knack for keeping a straight face in the most unlikely situation. However, the sight of the Xolo pup chewing up his own leg, a flower crown stuck around his neck and a letter tied to his furiously wagging tail was _almost_ too much even for her.

“What-- why--” Imelda groaned, and rubbed her temples. “Where do those flowers come from?”

The answer was ‘probably the cemetery’, but Sofía knew better than saying as much aloud. “Maybe he got his head stuck by accident. And, uh... There’ something tied to his tail.”

“I see that,” Imelda muttered, making no move to get it.

“... It might be something important.”

“This is far too stupid.”

“Would you bet on that?” she asked, and Imelda had no time to reply. The next moment Dante seemed to finally realize there was something stuck to his tail and began chasing it, spinning frantically and snapping his jaws at it. Both Sofía and Imelda were on him the next moment and the letter was saved, if at the price of muddy robes, slobbery hands, and petals everywhere.

By the time they pulled back, the slightly damp letter firmly in her hand, Imelda was scowling… and Sofía couldn’t stop laughing. Now _that_ was off to a great start.

“I can’t see what’s so funny,” Imelda grumbled, unfolding the letter to read… and immediately going very still, her eyes the only thing that moved as she scanned the page.

Knowing exactly what it read - it was Héctor, there was something he needed to tell her, would she meet him at the bridge at four? - Sofía feigned curiosity. “What does it say?”

Imelda recoiled, and immediately crumpled the letter in her fist before looking at her with a grimace. “Nothing of any importance,” she muttered, and turned to leave without saying another word, leaving Sofía alone in the small vegetable patch that seemed to refuse growing anything that year. With a sigh, she turned to look at the puppy currently flopping and rolling into the remains of the flower crown, leaving pools of drool on the petals.

That didn’t seem to have gone well. Or maybe it had.

With Imelda, sometimes it was hard to tell.

* * *

“Ah, Héctor! What have you got there, amigo?”

Padre Ernesto’s voice rang out suddenly, causing Héctor to nearly shriek and jump out of his skin. He turned quickly, face burning and crumpling the letter in his fist. “Nothing!” he exclaimed, knowing full well that he wasn’t believable at all. Padre Ernesto raised an eyebrow.

“Looks like a letter to me.”

“No! I mean, it is-- a note-- to remember--” he looked over Padre Ernesto’s shoulder, to the crucifix on the wall. “... Jesus.”

“A note to remember Jesus,” he repeated, deadpan.

“Yes-- I mean-- to remember to pray to him, you know? And-- and I’m late!”

As he rushed past him, Héctor felt like an idiot. After all, Padre Ernesto was perhaps the only person he could turn to for advice right now… but his heart was beating so fast, his thoughts in turmoil, and he felt he could explode if he dared open his mouth to say anything of the message he’d just read.

_I know there is something you need to tell me. See me at four at the bridge._

* * *

_It’s something about the Revolution. He’s got to be, something must have happened. It must be urgent, or else he would have sent the message the usual way._

Of course, it was hard to believe that. The way the message had been delivered - tied to a dog’s _tail,_ really? - wasn’t the only unusual thing about it. The handwriting was different, too - but it would only make sense if he used a different one for his anonymous messages to her, after all.

_What if it wasn’t Héctor?_

The thought struck her suddenly, as she stood alone on the wooden bridge crossing the stream. How had she not thought about that possibility? Was if someone else - someone who had found out what they were doing to aid revolutionaries - was trying to lure her away?

The answer - she had _wanted_ it to be Héctor - was tucked somewhere in the back of her mind, but she ignored it and looked around. If no one came within five minutes she would leave, and take the long way around in case anybody was waiting for her to pass by--

“Imelda…?”

Hearing Héctor’s voice was more of a relief than she was willing to admit to herself. With an inward sigh, Imelda turned to see him walking up to her, looking… more than a little sheepish. “Héctor.” She nodded, and said nothing until he stopped - a few respectful feet from her. She looked up at him, because he was _ridiculously_ tall, crossing her arms and forcing herself to ignore the acute awareness that they were entirely alone, with no one in sight.

To say it was breaking the protocol was an understatement… but then again, certainly he had something very important to tell her. “What is it you need to tell me?”

“Well…” Héctor hesitated and oh, that was not a good sign. Something in her stomach clenched and fluttered at the same time. “I needed to tell you that… that…” he cleared his throat, struggling to get words out. “Well…”

“Did something happen? Is this about the revolutionaries?” Imelda blurted out, almost without thinking, looking for an answer that would feel safe and make sense. He seemed taken aback, his skin reddened, but after a moment he nodded.

“Oh! Yes, o-of course!” he exclaimed. “So, uh… there were some instructions for…” he hesitated. “Some instructions. Well, you would know, I mean...”

Yes, she had found the note - _they_ needed some food, and she would make sure they’d have it, even if they had little of it to begin with. “Yes. I will find a way,” she promised, then hesitated. “Was that… all?” she asked. When Héctor nodded without looking at her, it was a relief… but something she dared not name ached. She ignored it, and turned to look at the stream. It could run fast and deep when it rained, but there had been no rain in some time and there was little water flowing, slow and steady. It made the bridge itself almost entirely useless, really.

“... Was it real--” she began, but didn’t get to finish the sentence.

“Hey! Isn’t this where you convinced me to eat mud cakes?” Héctor exclaimed, just a bit too enthusiastically. It was a very obvious attempt at changing subject, and Imelda hated such nonsense… but this time, it felt better to play along. Safer. What would she even ask, anyway?

“It was a little further downstream,” Imelda replied. She looked ahead, in the direction of the water’s flow, and a smile curled her lips. She could still remember it - a bunch of kids on the stream’s banks, playing in mud left behind by a small flood that had since ended. She still remembered putting together that mud cake. “... Did you really think it was chocolate, or were you just trying to humor me?”

“Oh, I believed it!” Héctor exclaimed, reaching to put a hand over his heart. He’d always been kind of cheeky upon occasion, but this time there was a dramatic flair to the gesture that made her wonder if Padre Ernesto was rubbing off him. “Absolutely and wholeheartedly!”

She laughed, leaning her elbows on the wooden railing. “Are you going to have to confess to lying now,” she asked, resting her chin in her hand. Héctor grinned sheepishly.

“Maybe,” he admitted. There were a few moments of silence, peaceful and nowhere as tense as the previous one. Imelda found she didn’t mind it at all; it seemed to natural. She let her gaze wander across the water again, saw a fish jumping quickly out of water and back in.

“... My parents didn’t like me playing with you,” she recalled, smiling a little. “Or any other of the orphans. They said you had lice.”

“I did have lice,” Héctor pointed out.

“We all had had lice at some point,” she reminded him. “My mother went through my hair with a fine comb for what felt like ages.”

“Heh. If you think that was bad, we all had to shave, remember?”

“Oh, I do. You cried,” Imelda quipped. To her amusement, Héctor turned slightly redder, rubbing his arm in the way he always did when self-conscious.

“I looked like a vulture,” he muttered, making a face. “Bald head, sharp beak…”

Imelda blinked. “Beak?” she repeated, turning to look at him, and her gaze fell on his nose. She let out a laugh. “Oh! That. It’s better now than it was then,” she told him, turning back to look at the water below them. “You grew into it.”

“You look good too,” Héctor blurted out. If not for the fact it left her stunned, she might have even found it amusing how his expression turned into utter horror in a second. “I-I mean…” he stammered. “No! I mean-- yes you do but-- I-- you… uuuugh!”

With a groan, he leaned against the rail and burrowed his face in his hands. “Oh God this is hard,” he muttered against his palms.

Around there, time seemed to have come a to a standstill. Under the shining sun, there was no sound - not even the song of a single bird; even the murmur of the stream was very far away. Wrapped in a sense of utter unreality, Imelda stared.

“Héctor…?” she called out, barely hearing her own voice. She tried to think of something to say, anything, but as he turned to face her, her mind drew a blank. He swallowed, and gave her a look that was both terrified and determined.

"There is something I need to tell you,” he said. “Imelda, I--”

“Brother Hector! Sister Giselle! What is _going on_ here??”

In the space of a breath, Imelda felt two things: relief, and an almost irresistible urge to bash Padre Juan’s skull in with a shoe.

“Two novices, out here alone!” the gringo was going on, his face almost purple. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Father John,” Héctor said quickly, stepping forward. “The fault is mine-- we just met, she was returning and… we were talking about old times.” He smiled, and suddenly he seemed perfectly at ease. Imelda almost smiled. There he was, the cheeky little liar she remember when they were kids. “Easier times, with fewer worries. We were children together, you see. We began talking - neither of us meant to be inappropriate. We didn’t think of it.”

“Oh.” Padre Juan hesitated, taken aback. Those unnervingly pale eyes shifted between the two of them, and he didn’t seem to take any notice of how Imelda had refused to lower her gaze. “... Of course,” he finally said, his expression and tone softening. “Omnia munda mundis.” _Everything’s pure to the pure._ “I do understand you meant no harm or blasphemy. However, it would be best to respect--”

“Of course, of course,” Héctor said quickly, nodding. “My apologies, Father John. The fault is mine - I did not think it through when we began to talk.”

He nodded, and looked at her. “Well then. The incident is closed. Shall I escort you back?”

Imelda gave a demure smile that hid her thoughts, half of which involved a blunt object and the gringo’s face. “If you please,” she said.

For the entire walk back, Padre Juan talked to Héctor of nothing but the upcoming celebrations for Easter, and said nothing at all to her as she followed them in silence. It was a relief.

And it was also incredibly frustrating.

* * *

“So you didn’t tell her.”

“I _almost_ did, but--”

“But you didn’t,” Padre Ernesto muttered, leaning back in his chair. His head connected with the wall behind him with a dull thud, and he ran his hand through his hair. Had he been a bit less flustered, Héctor would have noticed he seemed the very picture of frustration.

“Yes. Father John got there just as I was about to tell her, and…” he sighed and looked down. The thought of the trouble he _almost_ got Imelda into made him feel ill. She may have been the one to ask him to meet, but he was the reason why they had lingered there for so long: he’d just lacked the courage to get on with it right away.

As far as _seizing moments_ went, he was a complete failure.

Unaware of his thoughts, Padre Ernesto grumbled. “Ugh, that gringo. Lectured you for being on your own with a woman, didn’t he?”

“Sí.”

He made a face. “Oh, _of course_ he wouldn’t like that,” he muttered. For one absurd moment, Héctor wondered if he _knew_ \- but of course, that was impossible: he’d only told Imelda and Sofía that he was a convert, with no mention at all about his inclinations.

The thought he may have confessed as much did not cross his mind.

“Well, to be entirely fair, it’s what… most priests would say,” he pointed out, and shrugged at Ernesto’s unimpressed look. “You’re, uh, one of a kind. I am sure Padre Edmundo would have said the same in his place. Maybe not has vehemently, but--”

“It doesn’t matter what someone _else_ would have said. _He_  keeps sticking that pointy nose where it doesn’t belong, and I'll have none of that in _my_ parish. Should do something about--”

“Maybe it was for the best,” Héctor said quietly, gaining himself several moments of silence and a look of pure disbelief. He squirmed a little. “I mean, maybe… maybe it would have been a mistake. Maybe it’s just not a good idea and I should just forget about it, take my vows-- she’ll take hers and--”

“And possibly regret a missed opportunity for the rest of your lives?” Padre Ernesto cut him off, and stood. “No. As your friend--” he paused, and blinked, as thought he’d just heard those words coming from someone else’s mouth. He looked back at him, frowning a little. “... We _are_ friends,” he added. It somehow sounded like a statement and like a question at once.

Despite all the thoughts still storming in his mind - all that had just happened, Miguel slipping away, that war that threatened to strike Santa Cecilia any moment - Héctor smiled. “Of course.”

The oddly confused expression on Padre Ernesto’s face melted in a smile of his own, and he put a hand on his shoulder. “Great! Then take some friendly advice - don’t just give up. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been.”

That was… sound advice, really. The same he’d given him before, but maybe he needed to hear it again. “Right. I will tell her. Just… not right away. I’ll wait for--”

“The right moment, of course,” Padre Ernesto agreed, and it was reassuring, really. When he left his office, Héctor felt a lot better.

He never noticed the scowl on his friend’s face as the door closed behind him, nor he was there to see him storming out a few minutes later, heading for the chapel.

* * *

“Padre Juan. We need to talk.”

His words echoed in the empty chapel, causing the gringo to wince, snapped out of whatever bullshit prayer he was uttering. He glanced up, and one look at his face seemed to make him go, if possible, even paler. But it only lasted a moment: the next, that insufferable posh expression was back on his face.

“I am _praying,_ Father Ernest. Whatever you have to tell me can wai--”

“Now, Juan,” Ernesto snapped. The posh expression was gone in an instant, wiped away like chalk from a blackboard, leaving behind something not far away from terror that he struggled to hide. He stood, slowly.

“If it’s something so urgent--”

“It is. We can discuss it here, or in the sacristy where we know no one will listen. You choose, Juan. And fast.”

“My name is Father Jo--”

“When was last time you confessed yourself, Padre Juan?” Ernesto cut him off. “I think I know the answer. I’d like you to tell me.”

Oh, that hit him like a blow. Padre Juan recoiled, and immediately glanced down; the look of shame on his face was unmistakable, as was the conflict going through his mind. In order to keep up his stupid act, he would have to lie… and of course, that was a _sin._

“I… perhaps the sacristy,” he mumbled in the end, suddenly so _meek,_ and Ernesto nodded before heading there with quick steps. He could hear Padre Juan walking after him, more slowly; by the time the door of the sacristy closed behind them, he seemed to have aged a decade… and his gaze kept resting on everything in the room except him.

“Very well.” Ernesto crossed his arms, revelling a little in the fact he could tower over him. “Easter is coming up.”

“I am aware.” The attempt at putting up a mask, again - at changing subject. “And I must say, this town’s fixation with pagan fetishes is positively barbaric. This whole… business of making an effigy of Judas just to burn it--”

Nope, not this time. Ernesto wasn’t going to let him turn the conversation away from the _real_ issue there. It was time to knock the gringo off his pedestal. “Do you plan on taking part to the Eucharist on Easter, Juan?”

“I-- of course, how could I not--”

“Then you need to confess yourself, do you not? Last I recall you coming to confession, you _rudely_ left midway.”

A very, very heavy silence followed. Now the color of chalk, Padre Juan kept his gaze fixed on the floor and said nothing; his eyes were wide and fixed, his hands gripping the crucifix hanging from his neck so tightly it was a wonder the skin of his fingers and palms did not break.

“I… did not…” he choked out, and finally looked up at him. The look on his face was suddenly so lost, so pleading. If he’d seemed aged by a decade when they walked in, now he looked all the world like a lost boy. Ernesto sighed, and put on his best Patient Padre voice.

“This charade has been going long enough, hasn’t it? I know it was you and you know that I know. Don’t lie to me and add another sin to the list. As the parish priest, I have a duty to--”

Father John Johnson burst crying. It was eerie, really, how fast it happened: one moment he was standing before him and the next his features twisted and he fell on his knees before him, still holding onto the crucifix and sobbing his heart out like Ernesto had just shot a baby in front of him.

It made things _just_ a little awkward.

“Huh. I, er.” Ernesto shot a glance to the door, wondering what would… well, anyone think if they found them like that, but thankfully no one burst in, and he just crouched in front of the sobbing gringo. “Padre Juan?”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” he choked out, words almost unintelligible. “God forgive me-- have mercy on t-this… s-s-sinner…”

_All right, never mind knocking him off the pedestal. I changed my mind. He can stay on it._

Except that it was too late to take back what he’d said, so he’d have to suck it up. “It’s fine, you’re fine. Calm down. Let’s just-- finish the confession, sí? Then I give you absolution, you calm down, and we have a chat about what is going on with Hé--”

“Penance,” the gringo half-whispered, blinking away tears and trying, so hard, to stop sobbing. “I need-- I need penance.”

“Right, yes, I’ll give you-- I don’t know, some Hail Mary to say and--”

“It’s not enough, never enough! I deserve-- I need-- I tried! I tried every prayer, every penance!” With another sob, Padre Juan looked up a at him through a veil of tears, pale face all blotchy and red, streaked with tears. His nose was the color Ernesto’s old man’s would get halfway through his second bottle of the evening. “I try so hard to-- to make it stop! I am so sorry-- so ashamed-- I tried everything, prayed every saint, and I still feel this u-uh-unnatural lust!”

_No chance I can hit him in the head and make him forget the past ten minutes, is there?_

Ernesto groaned, running a hand through his hair before he stood and held out a hand. “Get up,” he said, only for the gingo to shut his eyes and shake his head, shrinking away from his hand. Ernesto clenched his teeth, drew in a deep breath, and forced himself to keep his voice even. “... Father John. Please. I am trying to help.”

He had no idea if the surprise of being called his actual name by him for the first time was what snapped him out of his hysterics, but either way, he did snap out of it. He stared up at him, blinking back tears, before he nodded and he stood - shakily, without taking his hand, but he did stand. Ernesto tilted his head towards the desk in the corner.

“Sit. I’ll get you something,” he added, and when he came back less than a minute later he was almost relieved to hear a shade of his usual petulance in his voice.

“Is that _holy_ wine?”

“It hasn’t been blessed. It’s just wine,” Ernesto muttered. Truth be told, all of the holy wine was just wine since he wasn’t a real priest and his blessing didn’t count for shit, but that was a detail Padre Juan was better off not knowing. He poured it in a couple of glasses and pushed one towards the other man before sitting across him. “Drink.”

He did, if with shaky hands: emptied half the glass in a couple of gulps and, when he put it back down, both his hands and his voice were a bit firmer. “I-- thank you,” he murmured, without looking at him in the eye.

“No problem.” Ernesto drank as well. He’d wanted to confront him about his _obvious_ desire for Héctor, tell him to back off and stop trying to get him to stick to vows he clearly was not meant to take only to keep him away from women, but he suspected that might just break him again now.

“So, uh. You. Never indulged.”

Padre Juan seemed to shrink in his seat and nodded, eyes downcast. “Never. But the thoughts… they are there. I’ve been fighting this for so long-- I want to _heal,_ I truly do. I… it cost me everything before, but I found a new meaning to my life, a mission. I… I can’t lose it all again.” His eyes filled with tears again, and he rubbed them with a sleeve, almost angrily. “I should be able to… I was only a boy when…” he let out a long breath. “... I am a grown man now. And yet I am just as lost as I was then.”

Ernesto nodded. “Let me see if I can help.”

The gringo looked down. “You… it is kind of you to… perhaps I misjudged…” he swallowed. “Are you not disgusted?”

Ernesto de la Cruz, who had seen, felt and done so many things that would probably give Padre Juan a heart attack - _don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks_ \- shrugged. If that guy who beat himself up to that extent over thoughts he never acted upon knew anything about him, he wouldn’t say he’d _misjudged_ him. He’d be more likely to physically pick him up and dump him in holy water. And maybe he’d keep his head under it. “I am here to help,” he said in the end. “Like the shepherd with the, uh, black sheep.”

Padre Juan blinked.

“... Right. Lost. The _lost_ sheep.”

“That’s better.”

“Can we go back to your confession?” Ernesto asked, a bit more pointedly than it was strictly necessary, and the other man immediately looked down at his glass.

“I… I showed no sign of this… perversion, growing up,” he murmured. “I was not interested in girls as I grew - not even to look at them and laugh with other boys, as boys do, but… everyone assumed I was just being the son of the Past--” he trailed off, seemed to hesitate, and finally sighed. “This is… not a sin, I supposed, but I’d be grateful if you told no one regardless.”

“Won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Huh?”

“I mean-- the secret of confession is sacred,” Ernesto said, and took another swig. “Go on.”

A nod. “Right. I am-- a convert,” he said, entirely unaware that Ernesto knew it very well. “My family was not Catholic - they-- we were Southern Baptists. My father was the Pastor - a pillar of our community, in a small town not too far from El Paso.”

“El Paso, huh?”

He seemed to recoil a little. “... Yes. I am from Texas.”

“You mean northern Mexico.”

The comment caused his lips to curl into a pale ghost of a smile. “... I have heard that one before,” he muttered, and drank a little more wine. “Everyone assumed my disinterest in girls was simply… me being the Pastor’s son, thinking of duty and duty only. I was meant to follow my father’s footsteps. I helped at the church since I was old enough to walk, studied hard, and everyone expected me--” his voice broke, and he paused. “... My apologies,” he muttered, reaching to wipe his eyes. Ernesto refilled his glass, saying nothing, and he drank just a little more before he went on. “Things… didn't turn out the way they were meant to.”

Ernesto nodded, his lips pulled into a tight line. He knew something about life plans going to hell; how the future he had imagined for himself - singing and playing for crowds, traveling through Mexico and then maybe the world, beloved wherever he went - had been put on hold, and maybe taken away for good, once he’d been drafted into the army.

He’d played from time to time to lift spirits, sung along with other soldiers, but soon enough the gunshots and screams and blood had become louder than the cheers - ringing in his ears for hours - and music had been lost. Only now, in that small town, did he get to enjoy it once more.

_This war ruined everything. This is not how I was supposed to go, not where I was meant to be._

He emptied his glass and went to refill it. “I understand. Sometimes--” _goddamn Victoriano Huerta_ “--God decides otherwise.”

Padre Juan lowered his gaze and sighed. “I still don’t know if it was God’s plan or the devil’s interference in it, but what I know is that, when I was five-and-ten, things began to change. I began having… thoughts… about a dear friend of mine.” He lifted the glass, downed all the wine and, under Ernesto’s surprised gaze, he held out the glass for more. He raised an eyebrow, but filled it again without saying anything. As long as it kept him from sobbing like a baby again.

“My family… I had a notebook they gave me. I was meant to write my failings on it, every day, to better reflect on them. So I did-- I was ashamed,” he added, his voice thin, and he looked up at him. “And so scared, you cannot imagine.”

Ernesto thought back of his old man in one of his bad days, and tried to imagine his reaction if he’d known of some quality time he had spent in a back alley with a bricklayer who worked just a few houses away, when he’d been eighteen or nineteen. He made a face. “... I think I can,” he said slowly. “Must have been horrifying.”

“But I was determined to find a cure, to resist - whether it was a trial God put in my way, or the devil tempting me, I would get through it. I prayed, and punished myself for my unholy thoughts, until… until…” his voice broke, and he shut his eyes.

Well. At that point, it was an easy guess. “They found out.”

A shuddering breath, and Padre Juan nodded. “... The notebook should have been private, between me and God. But… they noticed something was amiss. I returned home one evening and… my siblings were not there, nor were the servants. Only my parents, sitting in the living room… waiting.” He swallowed. “They were pale as death, and so quiet. I knew that they knew as soon as I lay my eyes on them, before I even saw the notebook in my mother’s hands. My father stood, and I--” His voice shook, and his left hand reached beneath his right sleeve. “I fell on my knees, begged for forgiveness. It was… not enough.”

Ernesto said nothing, but he reached to pull up that sleeve, and the gringo did not stop him. Across his forearm there was a long, thin, raised scar. “... Didn’t hold back, did he?”

“It was my fault,” he said plainly, pulling the sleeve down again. His expression was almost serene, disturbingly so. Did it make him feel better, taking on all the blame? Was it that horrifying, admitting that some things were simply beyond his control? “I was foolish. I tried to raise my arm to shield myself of the rightful punishment.”

Ernesto leaned back on his chair. It took him an effort to unclench his jaw. “I’m amazed they didn’t kill you.”

“They said they would, if I ever returned.” A long, heavy silence followed. With a deep breath, Padre Juan reached up to rub his face. His voice was firmer, now, almost emotionless. “They did the right thing.”

"Like hell they did."

"Father Ernest! Language!"

“You were fifteen.”

“Almost sixteen - almost a _man,_ and a dangerous one at that. You know what-- _sodomites_ are like. They must have worried I could harm my sisters, my little brother. Infect them.” His voice shook again. “I’d have died before I allowed a such thing to happen.”

Ernesto suspected Padre Juan was as likely to harm a kid as he was to spread his arms and take flight, but he said nothing. He got away with a lot while being considered an eccentric but charismatic young priest; however, saying anything that would go against the Catholic Church’s stand on the matter was too dangerous for his cover. So he just nodded for him to go on.

“... There isn’t much more to say. I left and…” Another pause, one that told Ernesto that there was more to that story than what he was about to hear. “Well. I found refuge in a church in El Paso. Father Joseph took me in,” he added, and smiled. It seemed the fondest smile Ernesto had ever seen on anyone’s face.

“A Catholic, huh?” he muttered. That was something they had in common, it seemed, running into priests while wandering aimlessly. Only that he didn’t think John had to shoot this Father Joseph in the head to put him out of his misery.

“Yes. He was a Jesuit, and cared for me like a son. He taught be about the only true Church - _our_ Church," he murmured. His hand went to the crucifix hanging from his neck. "This was a gift from him, and I felt so unworthy, but promised I would _deserve_ it. As soon as I was well enough, I went to seminary,” he added. He paused and emptied the glass. This time, he did not ask to have it filled again. “Perhaps he was too kind to me, too forgiving of my… defect. But I owe everything to him, and the Catholic Church. It gave me a new path, new purpose. I decided I would repay all of that by taking the vows, and travel to educate the still pagan masses on true Catholicism - spread the teachings that saved me.”

Fighting back an urge to break the bottle over his head - weaker than usual, yes, but it was still there - Ernesto nodded. “I see,” he said. _Idiota,_ he thought. “... Is it all?”

“Huh?”

“This is meant to be a confession. Any more sins?”

“Oh. Right,” Padre Juan had the good grace to look and looked away. “I… I really have misjudged you, in my… in my pride. I suppose that is my second great failing. Father Joseph did warn me I was too prideful.”

Ernesto nodded, quickly considering if he had enough cheek to reprimand anyone over their pride and coming to the conclusion that no, he did not. He came close enough, but… no. “I see,” he just repeated. He was about to utter the formula for absolution when Juan spoke again.

“I am sorry, for… for that woman. For what I told her,” he managed. “My advice followed the scriptures, but lacked compassion. I was shown compassion when in need. I should have, too.”

Well. That was… some progress, at least. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Ernesto smiled. “No worries. We fixed that oversight.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I _still_ don’t think you should have gone there with the intention to--”

“Nu-uh, having none of that,” Ernesto cut him off, lifting his hand. “Your confession, not mine. If that will be all, I’ll give you absolution and--”

“No… no penance?” Juan asked. He somehow sounded relieved and somewhat disappointed all at once, and Ernesto shook his head.

“You gave yourself enough penance. And it didn’t work, did it?”

“... No. But how else am I to heal this perversion?” he asked, anguish plain on his face.

“Well… let me have a think. We’ll work something out,” he said, and as Father John Johnson nodded - doubt and hope battling on his face - Ernesto spoke the formula of absolution, not realizing he’d forgotten to even tell him anything about staying away from Héctor.


	10. Semana Santa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title suggested by PrairieNerd: _The Miracle of Bread and Padre Ernesto’s Sausage_.  
>  Art in this chapter is by Senora_Luna. Extra art in the end chapter notes is by Elletoria.

“We were hoping for more food, Sister.”

As the remark she’d half-expected came, Imelda sighed and glanced down at the sack she had just handed to the man who’d asked to be called ‘José’. It was only half-filled with canned food, dried beans, hard cheese and salted beef. She nodded, her mouth pulled in a thin line. “It’s all we can spare.”

“I see more food in that cupboard,” one of the men muttered, glancing towards the end of the room. He seemed about to step towards it, but Imelda got in the way.

“Food that we _cannot_ spare,” she said, her voice firm. The man faltered, and stepped back, but another seemed less impressed.

“We can’t fight Federales on an empty stomach.”

“We have children to feed. The ones in our care, and families in poverty. There isn’t much to go around for anybody in town.”

“We’re fighting for the future of Mexico!” Someone protested, and Imelda lifted her chin, glaring at him. She was acutely aware of the fact she was outnumbered - several men, all of them armed, in a dark cellar - but she didn’t allow herself to be afraid. She could not.

“They _are_ the future of Mexico! If the people starve, what will be left to fight for?”

A few stepped back, but one still snorted, and glared back. “Well, I am hungry. I’ve been fighting for a year. I risk my hide every damn day. Get out of my--”

Several things happened in quick succession: the man put a hand on her shoulder to push her away; there was a sudden smacking sound, a cry of pain, and the man staggered back before Imelda could even raise her hand to strike him herself. He knelt, hands to the side of his face, blood running through his fingers.

“The next one who even _thinks_ of laying a hand on a nun will lose it,” José was saying, riding crop still raised. There was a hunting knife at his belt, and his free hand went to its handle. “Objections?”

His question was met with mumbling, shaking heads, and even a few men crossing themselves. With a satisfied nod, José turned back to her. “I understand, Sister. Our man did warn me the supplies were growing scarce - we’ll take no more food out of your mouths. Do you think you can provide medical supplies, if needed?”

Imelda nodded. “That I can do,” she said, getting a nod right back.

“Thank you, sister.”

They left the cellar with what she was able to give them, but Imelda didn’t move for a good while, trying to think of something - _anything_ \- that she could do now. They needed more food, too, before their supplies ran out; hardly anything was growing in the piece of land the parish owned, and it looked like things were about to get even harder for everyone. Something had to be done.

She had a duty to support the fight against Huerta's regime, but wouldn’t let a single child go hungry under her watch.

* * *

It wasn’t often that John stood before a mirror to look at himself. His body mattered not, a husk of flesh he would discard when he passed on to the next life, and his looks mattered even less. He’d long since stopped paying any mind to the marks that criss-crossed his back - old scars and new ones, half-healed welts and some still scabbed over.

The vast majority, he had inflicted over himself - but not the very first ones, those that hurt the most. Those were a parting gift, the very last lesson Reverend David Johnson had ever taught him, he who’d taught him everything he’d know up to that moment. A lesson in pain while he begged for forgiveness and guidance he would not receive.

The beating had been brutal but, after that first attempt at shielding himself with one arm - the only attempt - he’d only covered his face and endured. Even the pain was a relief compared to the horror of seeing his shameful secret uncovered, the disgust on his parents’ face.

 _Honor your Father and Mother,_ the Bible said, and oh God, had he failed; the punishment his father was visiting upon him, bringing the rod down on him without a word until his fine Sunday clothes were torn and bloodied, was well-deserved. He was a man of God; certainly he would know best of to handle it, how to cure him. If the salvation of his soul came at the price of his flesh, he would still count himself blessed.

 _The anger of the head of a family is never without reason,_ he’d tell Fernanda Rodríguez thirteen years later; he’d believed it, then. His father sought to correct him, as a father should. Once this was done, he’d thought, he’d extend his hand to help him up… but he never did.

Suddenly the blows were over and, as he lay on the ground in a ball of pain - it hurt to breathe, something was wrong, and his left hand throbbed - his father dropped the rod. _“Leave.”_

That one word cut deeper than any blow, filled him with more horror than he thought a human being could withstand. Surely he’d misheard, it couldn’t be, and it was with that thought that he painfully pulled his hand away form his face to peer up, still curled on one side. He couldn't muster the courage to look at his father in the face, but he did glance at his mother. She sat on the same armchair she’d been on when he’d walked through the door and she was looking away, face turned to the fireplace, entirely expressionless.

No, John thought in stunned disbelief. That wasn’t possible-- God please, no. It couldn’t be happening. It was his father, his mama. They had taught him all he knew, guided him, watched him grow with pride. They held his hands as he learned how to walk, stayed at his bedside when he was sick, kissed him when he’d cried over a scraped knee or a bad dream.

“Ma-- mama,” John called out, his voice so thin and childish. She didn’t even blink, didn’t turn, and John knew no one would wake him from that nightmare. No one was going to kiss it better.

_No, no, no. Please. I’m sorry. I’m trying._

“Mama,” he pleaded again, voice breaking up and eyes filling with tears, wanting more than anything for her to come comfort him - and suddenly, she stood… still without looking at him.

There were only a few steps from the armchair to the fireplace; she paused before it and let his journal drop, the journal they had so solemnly given him when he'd turned ten; it smoked on the embers for a few moments before it caught fire in a bright flare, so bright John could believe was gazing into Hell itself.

_No, this is good. My sins are burning away. They can help me. They will help me._

“I’m sorry,” he managed to whisper. “Please, I did nothing. It was only thoughts, I prayed God to cleans me, I never acted on-- please, don’t--”

“Stand up.” His father’s voice was cold as ice, and John, still stunned, did stand up; slowly and painfully, but he obeyed, as always. He always would if only they gave him a chance, if they--

That frail hope was dashed away the instant he met his father’s gaze, so cold and unyielding. He had the same look of disgust he reserved to the worst sort of sins, as he preached to the congregation of fire and brimstone and eternal damnation. It made John feel so filthy, so unworthy, so small. “If a man sleeps with a man as with a woman, they have both committed a detestable act,” he quoted, eyes blazing. “They shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them. _Who have you lain with,_ John?”

“N-no one!” he sobbed. “It was-- thoughts. Sinful thoughts, but I didn't-- I wouldn’t--”

“Answer one question, and truthfully,” his father spat. “Have you done anything to your brother?”

The idea alone was enough to chill John to the bone. “No!” he cried out. Something in his chest burned as he did, but he hardly felt it. The mere idea of defiling his little brother, little Michael who’d sit on his knee and listen to stories, made him feel ill. “No, I-- I never-- I would never!”

“Your sisters?”

“No!” John choked out a sob.

A scoff. “Not yet.”

“N-never! Please, dad-- father-- I could never--!”

 _“Silence,”_ Reverend David Johnson almost snarled and oh God, John had never seen him so furious. “You will, if given a chance. There’s no depravity a sodomite would not commit. But I won’t allow it. It is my duty to protect this community-- to protect my children!”

“I-I am--” John shook his head, his vision blurry with tears. A sob wracked his chest, causing such intense pain he felt he might faint. He wiped the tears and snot from his face with a sleeve that was quickly turning red, but it seemed so unimportant; it was for his soul that he feared and if his own father and mother found him beyond salvation, then he was truly lost. “I am your--”

“No. Not anymore,” he cut him off, and turned away from him, like he couldn’t even stand the sight. He raised an arm to point at the door. “We'll tell you decided to join the army, to save your honor and that of our family. Then we'll say you died. But if your next step is not towards that door, God help us both."

And John had left, without the strength to argue and carrying nothing with him, so stunned he felt he might be drunk. Just like that, his life was over; his family, his home, his friends and community, everything he’d ever worked for - all he was meant to be since birth - had crumbled to ashes before his eyes, like the notebook in the fireplace. He’d been cast out like Adam from the Garden of Eden, left with nothing but the torn clothes on him and the knowledge the fires of hell were at his heels as he limped out of his home, through the fields, and into the night.

He met no one in his slow, painful trek; it was one more blow - _I couldn’t even say goodbye_ \- but also a relief. They would ask for explanations he could never bring himself to give.

His father was right; he was dangerous. For everyone’s safety, he had to go.

Under the cover of darkness, numb to all pain but not to the cold, he walked through dirt paths across the countryside for God knew how long until exhaustion caught up with him. There was a small patch of dried grass by a crossroad, and he didn’t lean down on it as much as he collapsed. Everything hurt, he didn’t know how much blood he had soaking his clothes and cooling against his skin. He no longer cared. He no longer cared about anything. Had suicide not been yet another detestable act in the eyes of God, he would have ended his life and freed the world of the blight of his presence.

John Johnson closed his eyes, and let himself fall into unconsciousness. The numbness overcoming even his terror of Hell, in his last moment of awareness he found himself praying to God not to let him wake up again.

But he had; he’d awakened to a stranger asking him if he’d been robbed, offering to let him on his cart as he headed towards El Paso. He’d accepted, because he had nowhere else to go, and once arrived he’d limped into the first church he’d seen, where a function was going on. Nobody had noticed him as he entered, sat in the back, knelt as they did… and, soon enough, blacked out.

He’d awakened in a bed, God knew how many hours later, with bandages on his wounds and a heavy blanket on him, an aging man in a cassock and white collar looking down at him with worried eyes. One of his hands cupped his head the moment he opened his eyes, the other bringing a glass to his chapped lips.

“Good God, my child, who has done this to you?”

_A good man. A man of God. I deserved this._

John had tried to stand and could not, his body battered, a couple of ribs broken, and in the end he’d broken down, wept, confessed his sin and waited to be thrown out yet again - but no such thing had happened. He’d been comforted, offered more water, offered food; and Father Joseph had even joked that surely he was too old to evoke lust, so what did he have to fear?

John’s reflection in the mirror became distorted, and he blinked away some tears, Very slowly, he sat and stared at the rod in his hands. Father Joseph - his mentor, the man who had given him a smile and hope when all seemed lost - would have disapproved of its use, no doubt. He’d been a good man, soft of heart - too soft. He'd disapproved of the punishment his father had visited upon him, too.

_“Do you know the parable of the lost sheep, my boy? A sheep was lost, and the shepherd left the flock in the meadow to look for it. Searched high and low, because the flock was safe, but the lost sheep needed to be found. And once he found it, did he beat it with sticks and stones?”_

_“N-no.”_

_“What did he do, my child?”_

_“He… brought the sheep home. To… rejoin the flock.”_

A smile, and he’d quoted the Scripture - a very different passage from the one his father had snarled in his face.

_“When he has found it, he carries it on his shoulders, rejoicing. When he comes home, he calls together his friends, his family and his neighbors, saying to them, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!' I tell you that even so there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents, than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance."_

That had been the moment he’d regained some frail hope, when he’d begun to see a path forward for him, a path to redemption that would go through the Catholic Church. And maybe one day, if he did a good enough job and made a name for himself… then maybe his family - his father, who wouldn’t speak to him even by letter, who told everyone he’d died - would hear of him. Maybe they would forgive him, and let him come home, if for a short while.

Father Ernest could know none of it and yet, in his own way, he'd sounded so much like his mentor, even bringing up the same parable. Or almost.

_“I am here to help. Like the shepherd with the, uh, black shee-- Right. Lost. The lost sheep.”_

Perhaps… yes, he had misjudged him. He wasn’t _proper,_ sometimes he seemed a downright idiot, and unlike Father Joseph he was most decidedly _not_ too old to evoke lust in him… but he had been kind to him. He was willing to help, God bless him; he'd given him absolution.

And Father John Johnson promised God he would never make him regret it.

* * *

As la Semana Santa approached, Ernesto didn’t precisely feel blessed.

Things hadn’t been going too badly, really. Everything had settled in a comfortable routine and she found he sort of liked being such a vital part of life in Santa Cecilia. Back home, he’d been a nobody playing for tips in the plaza and dreaming of a big break that simply wouldn’t happen; in the army, he’d been a number, cannon fodder and nothing more.

But there? He was well-liked, listened, sought after; even the gringo had toned down his criticism to a few mutters every now and then, which was a nice change. Yes, things were going well - if not for the small, negligible detail that the entire town seemed to be running out of food.

“What do you expect me to do? Multiply bread and sausages like Christ did?”

“Fish,” Sofía said flatly. “Bread and fish.”

Ernesto rolled his eyes. “Sausage, fish-- the point is, I don’t work miracles.”

A shrug. “Well, Pedro Marques begs to differ,” she said.

… All right, and who was that again? The name was only vaguely familiar, Ernesto thought, bringing the glass of mass wine up to his lips with a questioning look. Sofía gave a sharp smile.

“He’s going around telling high and low what a miracle worker you are. He and his wife had been trying for years to have a child, until you went and blessed their bed.”

Blessed their bed? Odd, he couldn’t remember blessing any be--

_Wait._

The mouthful of wine Ernesto had been about to gulp down came back up through his nose in a sudden, foamy stream. “Ack-- gah!” he coughed hard enough to tear up, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. Sofía leaned her hand on her chin, raising an eyebrow.

“Doctor Sanchéz just told her she’s with child. If it’s a boy they want to name him after you, you know?”

“How about-- _ack--_ no?”

“I am also fairly sure the Martìnez family credit you with curing the infertility that plagued their only daughter, too. Got something to tell me there?”

“No,” Ernesto croaked.

“And about those late evening confessions--”

“All right! All right! I’ll figure something out!” Ernesto coughed again, lifting his hands. “Just keep your mouth shut!”

Sofía shrugged. “I always do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“When it comes to _talking,_ I do,” she retorted, and she seemed about to add something when there was a sudden knock on the door, only for it to open a moment later - what was even the point of knocking if you’re just going to barge in without waiting a single moment? - and reveal Padre Juan in the doorway.

“Father Ernest, I have spoken with Brother Héctor about a matter… we should… discuss.” The gringo blinked at him, eyes shifting to the pool of red wine on the desk Ernesto was sitting at, and his beet red face. Sofía gave him a smile that was nothing short of angelic.

“Padre Ernesto has a bit of a cough,” she said.

Just a few days earlier, Padre Juan would have probably exploded and started rambling something about decor or whatnot - but now, even though he looked like he’d just sucked a lemon, he did no such thing.  “... I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he mumbled, and left, shutting the door under Sofía’s perplexed gaze.

“What is it with him lately?” she wondered aloud. “He hasn’t even talked about pagan fetishes, fire and brimstone since last Sunday.”

Ernesto cleared his throat. “We have reached an understanding,” he said. A practical part of him reminded him it was probably due to fear because he had him under his thumb, knowing his secret… but truth be told, he liked the idea he’d gotten his respect. It felt like a huge win, and he loved winning.  And now, if he wanted to keep his winning streak, there was a miracle to pull o--

“Maybe he can help.”

“... What?” Ernesto blinked up at her. “Him?”

She shrugged. “He might have connections we don’t. Maybe he could get us some food, or money to buy it from somewhere - it’s worth a try.”

That was true, Ernesto knew. They couldn’t will food out of thin air; they’d have to raise money to pay for it, and if food was as scarce throughout the rest of Oaxaca as it was there… well, the price to pay would be high. Charitable donations from parishioners often little above poverty themselves may not get them far enough.

“... Yes,” he finally said. “It’s worth a go.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice - the same that had come up with his very first plan of stealing donation and leaving a few days after his arrival - demanded to know why would he care, since when it was his problem, but he shut it out.

He liked where he was, he liked it how good he had it, and he’d be damned if he let anyone in his parish - any of _his_ people - starve under his watch.

* * *

“All right. At the moment we have enough to keep everyone - the kids and the poor and whatnot - fed for for… how long?”

“A month.”

“Perhaps a fortnight more if we cut rations now.”

“If we cut any more ration, half the clergy is going to faint. We’re already eating little for Lent.”

“Our Lord fasted forty days.”

"With all due respect, Padre, we’re just human.”

“So was Christ, Mother. He made himself flesh--”

“We can have the lesson later, thanks.”

Father Ernest’s voice caused John to trail off, and shut his mouth. His first instinct was to protest, but he did not; he could tell the situation could get dire if they did not act fast. He was there in the sacristy with Father Ernest, Brother Hector, the sexton - Gustav? - and the Mother Superior to find solutions, rather than argue. Still...

“... What I am saying,” John said slowly, “is that if there will be meals to give up, I am willing to.”

“That’s appreciated,” Father Ernesto conceded, and even smiled before looking back down at the list the sexton had brought in for him to look at. “But it wouldn’t solve much. What we do need is more food.”

“We have plenty of wine,” the sexton spoke up. “It’s the only thing we have in abundance, other than rat poison.”

Father Ernest blinked. “And why do we have an abundance of rat poison?”

“To poison rats,” Gustav said, only to pause when he realized the reply would sound much too sharp towards the parish priest. “We had a serious issue with them a couple of years ago. They got into the granaries - it was a mess. Chicharrón convinced Padre Edmundo to buy a lot of rat poison - said they would eat the offerings on Día de los Muertos - but they were gone before we used much of it. So we have a lot of wine and a lot of poison, stored next to each other. Not a bright idea, but the old gravedigger is not very bright himse-- ”

“We could sell some, or trade it,” Hector suggested, causing Gustav to snort.

“Oh, of course. Who wouldn’t love the idea of trading money or better yet food for _poison_ when times get hard? That’s the dumbest idea--”

“I meant the wine, Gustavo,” Brother Hector replied, his voice dry. “There will always be people willing to buy wine.”

“Sell holy wine?” John protested, but Father Ernest shrugged.

“It’s not holy wine until it’s blessed,” he said lightly. Suddenly reminded of last time he’d told him as much, John shut his mouth and leaned back on his seat. His face was on fire, and he could only hope it wasn’t turning too obviously red.

Thankfully, Father Ernest was speaking again and turning the attention away from him.

“We’re going to need the kind of stuff that lasts - canned food, maybe, but that’s hard to get away from the city and the army has most of it. Flour, dried meat, desiccated beans, flour. Grains for us and for the parish’s hens because God knows we _need_ that supply of eggs. We’ll need to buy it in bulk, and you can bet we’re not the only ones making plans to. I doubt many people in a hundred miles radius are faring better than us. We must to be ready to pay twice the price, if needed.”

“And deprive others of food,” John spoke up. It wasn’t condemnation as much as a statement - he knew how the world worked - but it gained a long look from everyone in the room.

“If that’s what it takes,” Father Ernest said gravely. “I must look after my parish.”

John said nothing, and Brother Hector turned back to Father Ernest.

“That would be a lot of money to raise.”

“I know. We’ll sell some of the wine in San Luz, and push for offerings from parishioners who can part with a few pesos. After all, isn’t Holy Easter the right time to buy yourself paradise?”

All right, that was going too far. “No one can _buy_ paradise,” John pointed out.

A shrug. “Relax, Martin Luther. I’m not saying we’re going to sell indulgences to--”

“What-- to compare me to that _heretic_ \--!” John could feel his face burning, and now he was sure to be turning beet red. It wasn’t the worst Father Ernest could say of him, but it still felt like an awful insult. With a shrug, Father Ernest waved a hand.

“I meant no insult. You are a proper man of God,” he said, and stared at him in the eye. He sounded perfectly serious - like he meant it - and oh, it was a relief that he’d think so… even knowing what he knew. “And you can help us a great deal.”

John blinked. “... What? Me?” he asked, and looked around to see everyone’s eyes on him. He was acutely aware, suddenly, of the golden crucifix hanging from his neck. It was worth quite some money, he knew, but he couldn’t bear to part from it and he he found himself hoping none of them had noticed it. He fought an impulse to hide it beneath his collar. “And… and how can I help?” he asked. Certainly they did not expect him to be the one to ask parishioners for offerings; they knew how little the people in that town thought of him.

“You have been travelling with the blessing of a Bishop,” Father Ernest said. “You have good connections, and certainly someone will be able to spare a few donations for a town in need.”

John nodded, finally seeing what he was getting at. “I could write a letter, but I am not sure my plea would hold much weight,” he said. “I won’t be the first nor last missionary to plead for aid. A letter might not cut it, but… if I can find a way to make it stand out…” he paused, and met Father Ernest’s gaze.

 _Let me have a think_ , he’d said, unfazed by his confession, but his sin. _We’ll work something out._

John clenched his jaw for a moment before he spoke. “Give me a little time. I’ll try to think of something,” he said. “I’ll do all I can to help.”

Another smile. “Thank you, Father John,” Father Ernest said, and John just looked down with another nod, not daring look at him in the eye - hoping that his face had not reddened again and not realizing, lost in thought, that Brother Hector was looking at him with a concerned frown.

* * *

Miguel could tell something was not right.

No one had come forward and told him - or anyone else in the orphanage, really - but he wasn’t dumb. He noticed the hushed voice of the nuns, the insistence of not letting one bite to wasted at meal times; he noticed the tight line of Imelda’s mouth, and the frown on Héctor face.

“I’m just a bit thoughtful,” Imelda had told him when he’d asked.

“Got a few things in my mind, chamaco, nothing more,” Héctor had replied, ruffling his hair and suggesting he go practice his guitar skills with Cheech.

Miguel hadn’t gone, because he liked Cheech but playing was no fun without Héctor, and they hadn’t played or sang together in weeks. So he’d just nodded and watched him leave, saying something about going house to house to collect donations - another red flag, they had never needed to do it before and come to think of it, Ernesto had insisted a lot on charity at Mass the previous day. Even Padre Juan had begun going around to ask for donations, even if it got him a door slammed shut to his face more often than not.

Sooner or later he’d _have_ to learn not to look outraged when he asked to speak to ‘the head of the family’ and an abuela came out to talk to him, but Miguel wouldn't hold his breath over it, or waste it trying to explain anything to him. Instead, he’d used it to ask what was going on to one person he knew wouldn’t baby him.

“So, what’s happening?”

“Your dog is trying to eat my foot.”

“No he’s no-- oh, he is. Dante, no! Here! I mean, what _else_ is happening?”

Ernesto made a face. “An awful lot at once. You might want to be more specific.”

“With the whole spiel about charity and Héctor and Padre Juan going off to collect donations.”

“Ah. That. We’re facing a food shortage and might all starve.”

_“What??”_

Ernesto laughed. “All right, things are not _that_ dramatic. We’re working to fix it.”

“By raising money?” Miguel gave him a doubtful look, stroking Dante’s head. The dog seemed to thrive on a few scraps, but what would happen once there would be no more scraps to be spared? “You can’t eat money.”

“You _buy_ food with money.”

“And from who?”

“From people who have enough of it stored to part with some for the right price,” Ernesto said, and shrugged. “That’s how the world goes when things get tough. People hoard, but money is sweeter than any pastry. The war must end, and they’ll be richer once it does.”

It seemed unfair to people with little to nothing to eat, but Miguel wasn’t so naive not to know what was how it went. He nodded, looking down, and Ernesto seemed to notice his frown. He crouched in front of them, stopping Dante from licking his face with one hand.

“Hey, chin up, muchacho. We’ll be fine. But if you’re so worried, why don’t you help? We’ve got to organize the procession for el Domingo de Ramos, but I'm sort of taken - why don’t you and your friends do it? We’ll need a donkey, a Jesus, and a lot of palm branches people will give an offering to get.”

Miguel blinked. “Why would they pay to get those? They can find them anywhere.”

Ernesto grinned. “Not _blessed_ ones, they can’t,” he replied with a wink, causing Miguel to laugh.

“You _sure_ you’re not a real priest?” he asked. Ernesto rolled his eyes, giving him a light shove, but he was laughing as well and Miguel was wonderfully sure all would be well.

* * *

“... And _this_ is where Jesus will get to the plaza from!”

“I mean, not the actual Jesus.”

“Just our Jesus.”

“Mexican Jesus.”

“Jesús.”

“We know a Jesús.”

“But he’s sixty.”

“And there is also another Jesús.”

“But he’s missing an arm and he curses all the time,” Felipe muttered.

“I would also curse if I were missing an arm,” Óscar added. He looked extremely satisfied with their plan so far as he looked at Ernesto and Padre Juan, both sitting at the desk in the sacristy. Miguel couldn’t help but think the gringo looked uncomfortable, but he had no idea why; nothing of what the twins had suggested so far was too different from your typical procession for el Domingo dos Ramos.

And Ernesto liked it, too, glancing down at the map of Santa Cecilia. The procession was going to begin at the start of the main road, through the plaza, and finally in front of the church; there was plenty of space for everyone to stand along the way to put down their palm branches on the path.

“Sounds good to me,” he said, smiling brightly. The twins smiled back.

“Great! Can we use the donkey in the parish stables, then?”

“That would be _my_ donk--” Padre Juan started, only for Ernesto to shrug.

“He says you can,” he told Felipe, not even turning to look at the priest, who looked distinctly annoyed but did not protest. Both boys grinned widely.

“Yes!”

“Thank you, Padre Juan!”

“It would be _Father John,_ Phil--” the gringo started, only to be entirely ignored.

“You’ll have to choose Jesus, Padre Ernesto!”

“As in, someone to play Jesus. You already choses Jesus. Clearly.”

“Ah. Do I have to?”

“Well, it was Padre Edmundo who picked every year.”

“So now you have to.”

“Then we'll get your Jesus get on the donkey.”

“And people will put down palm leaves.”

“Just like in the Scriptures!”

“And there will be fireworks!”

Ernesto’s face lit up. “Oh, I love firewor--”

“There is _definitely_ no mention on fireworks in the Scriptures,” Padre Juan cut him off, his voice a little tighter. Ernesto frowned and seemed about to protest, but paused when he noticed Miguel, shaking his head frantically behind Óscar and Felipe’s back.

Not that Miguel didn’t like fireworks - he loved them - but he had seen what happened when Óscar and Felipe were allowed to handle them, and it wasn’t worth the risk. Last thing they needed was for someone to have to fetch Doctor Sanchéz because the stand-in for the Son of God had serious burns in addition to being trampled by his own frightened donkey.

Luckily, Ernesto took his input on board.

“... Right. No fireworks anywhere in the Scripture. Sorry, muchachos,” he added at Óscar and Felipe’s obvious disappointment. Padre Juan seemed relieved, but of course he had no idea how dangerous the twins could be while handling anything flammable, so he was probably thinking something boring on how they would all be spared blasphemy. “But you can pick Jesus.”

Just like that, the disappointment faded in wide grins.

“Oh! We need to make a list!”

“We could pick anyone!”

“Like Chicharrón!”

“Or Gustavo!”

“Hey now--” Ernesto began, but neither twin listened: they were out the next moment, still brainstorming names. He blinked. “... I should have reserved the right to veto especially dumb choices.”

“You should have,” Padre Juan agreed, his voice flat. It made Miguel laugh a little, watching them agree on anything.

“I can try to get them to pick someone who’d be… a better Jesus?

Ernesto grinned. “Like me,” he suggested.

“Absolutely not,” Padre Juan interjected, causing him to frown. Ah well, Miguel supposed they just weren’t meant to agree on more than one thing at a time.

“Why not?” Ernesto protested. “At least I’d look _good_ in a loincloth.”

Just like that, Padre Juan’s pale skin turned beet red. It was a change so quick Miguel could hardly believe it. “That-- that is not the point!” he very nearly screeched. “A-and _besides,_ our Lord was fully dressed when he entered Jerusalem!”

“Do the Scriptures say  so specifically?”

“It doesn’t say otherwise!”

“How about I suggest they pick Héctor?” Miguel asked, raising his voice a little to be heard. As Padre Juan looked away, suddenly very interested in the floor, Ernesto shrugged.

“Not as devastatingly handsome as me, but he’d make a good second choice.”

“Pride,” Padre Juan muttered under his breath, but Ernesto entirely ignored him.

“Best to find him and tell him to agree, before those two try to rope in Chicharrón.”

“Or worse yet, Gustavo.”

“Or worse _yet,_ la Madre Superiora.”

“Well, she _does_ have a beard, so--”

“Father Ernest!” Padre Juan protested as they laughed, causing Miguel to shut his mouth - but he still snickered - and Ernesto to turn his laughter into a cough.

"A-hem. Why don't you go find Héctor? He should be back by now,” he told him, and Miguel took the chance to leave. He really wasn’t looking forward to being there for a lecture… even if Padre Juan did tone down, lately, come to think of it. And he’d kept the promise to call him Miguel instead of _Michael,_ too. Maybe he was learning.

But Miguel was still not risking a lecture.

“Sure! I’m bet he’ll agree,” he said, and then, with a quick nod Padre Juan, he turned to run outside, leaving Ernesto to deal with him.

* * *

“So, uh. Any updates?”

Father Ernest’s voice broke the brief silence, and caused John - who had been looking down at his glass for just a bit too long - to wince.

“Ah, I…” he hesitated. The urges were still there, the thoughts were still there, but he’d been trying to ignore them, push them in the back of his mind instead of letting them linger and then punishing himself for it. But God, if he didn’t stop uttering nonsense about wearing a loincloth only - and leaning in entirely too close, good God, did these people know nothing of personal space? - he didn't know what he'd do. “W-well enough. I have been fighting it.”

Father Ernesto blinked. “What?”

John looked down, his face aflame. Part of him wished he would move away, but he was also grateful for his presence, for the inexplicable fact he did not seem horrified by him. “There have been moments of weakness, but I never defiled myself - not once, I--”

“Ah. Er, that’s… great. But I meant to ask if you thought of anything that could get us funding.”

 _Oh._ John stood quickly, pacing away a few feet and hoping against hope his face wasn’t too red. “I-- of course. I believe I thought of something,” he said, and breathed a little more easily. That was a good thing to talk about, practical, safe. He even found it in himself to look at Father Ernest in the eye. “I heard from the gravedigger… I believe you call him Chicharrón, but he never told me his Christian name.”

Father Ernest shrugged. “I don’t think he told anyone. I’m not even sure he has one.”

“That is simply not possible! He has been christened, has he no--” John began, only to trail off when Father Ernest snapped his fingers.

“Don’t get sidetracked. Priorities, remember?”

“The soul of a sheep of your flock--”

“I’ll concern myself with keeping their bellies full before I move on to their souls. You said you had an idea. What did Chicharrón tell you?”

“I… Yes. Right,” he muttered. “He mentioned the late Father Edmund was a keen photographer. He believes his equipment should still be in the parish. I… as a boy, I was keen on photography as well, and knew my way in a dark room. I was… decent at it.”

“... Congrats?”

“So, I was thinking-- a letter from me might have some leverage, but no more than many others pleas for help they are certainly getting. A few photographs to go with it might make it stand out. I can be persuasive in written word, but a photograph can speak volumes,” John explained. The more he spoke, the surer his voice got. “Perhaps if I write _and_ send some photos taken of the progress toward true Catholicism and civilization-- don’t look at me like that, you said getting funds is the priority!”

Father Ernest rolled his eyes in a way that was decidedly unbecoming of a man of God, but he didn’t protest. “Noted,” he said, and grinned. “So we're supposed to put on the nice Sunday clothes, look good and pose for pictures? I'm good at that."

_Oh, of course he is._

Skin flushing once again, John chased away the thought. "Yes, well… you are the parish priest, so I suppose… er. But I think we should photograph the children, show them studying Latin, as I suggested… and dressed well at Mass.” He paused. “They are quite well-behaved when you say Mass,” he added, ignoring the sting to his pride.

Father Ernest seemed… intrigued, if anything, and seemingly unaware of how flustered he’d gotten. “So you think that pictures of kids being good little angels in Church, maybe studying Latin, would help convince… whoever there is to convince?”

"Yes. We need to show them following the true Catholicism and leaving behind the pagan ways a small town like this would-- er,” he hesitated when Father Ernesto narrowed his eyes. “A-anyway. They will understand my efforts here are so impactful the town deserves funding,” he added.

Father Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Not exactly truthful. Sounds like I’ll have to absolve you for lying,” he laughed, but John didn’t find it funny. He knew his efforts seemed for naught, the town so entrenched in its pagan traditions, but surely in time… if he kept at it...

“It wouldn’t be complete a lie,” he finally muttered. “After all that's the path I'm leading the town on. It's just... a projection of the future."

“... Sure,” Father Ernest nodded. “All right, it’s worth a try. We’ll look for the equipment right away, and tomorrow we’ll discuss how to organize this. The sooner we get that letter and the photos through, the better.”

If they do go through, John thought. The letter he had sent to la arquidiócesis de Antequera on his concerns over the new parish priest hadn’t received a reply yet, and John was beginning to think - hope, really, maybe he’d misjudged - that it had gone lost on the way. It was not unusual for that to happen, after all, much less in a country in turmoil. Nothing he could do about that but to take the photographs, write the letter, and pray to God it would reach its destination as swiftly as possible.

“All right. I’ll ask Brother Héctor if he knows where the equipment is, as he was here for--”

“... About that, Padre Ju-- John,” Father Ernesto spoke up, standing. “I think we need to have a talk about Héctor.”

“Oh,” John said, blinking in confusion. What could it be about? “Has there been any issue?”

“Well, he may not be with us for long.”

The words hit him like a blow. “Oh! Oh my God, is he that ill?”

“... What?”

“I had noticed-- he was paler-- seemed upset over something, like he did not sleep well, but I thought-- is there nothing the doctor can do?” John managed, grasping the crucifix hanging from his neck. He would never argue the will of God, but it seemed such a horrible waste and tragedy - a gifted young man with the makings of a _great_ man, taken from them too soon. In his dread, he didn’t even take notice of how close Father Ernest was - close enough he could see the confusion etched in his features.

“Wait, what? No, no!” he exclaimed, holding up his hands. “He’s not dying! I mean-- he might not be in the Church for long.”

“Oh.” John breathed out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God-- wait, what? He means to leave the Church?"

"Well, possibly. It depends on--"

“We must talk him out of it!” John exclaimed. “He shows so much promise, it would be a downright shame--” he trailed off when Father Ernest raised a hand.

“He’s questioning his calling and we won’t talk him out of anything. That’s exactly what I meant to talk about.”

John gaped. “But--”

“You wouldn’t want him to take the vows only to regret it ten years down the line, would you?”

The thought made John pause, and whatever he was about to retort died in his throat. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone could regret taking the vows but then again, unlike him, Héctor had a _choice._ He could lead a normal life, marry a woman, have children and be blessed. John… could never. The Church, his mission, was all that there was; outside it there was only perdition. Things would be different for Héctor, should he choose not to take the vows.  

“I…” he sighed, and looked away. “... No, I would not. You are right. He must act according to conscience.”

“It’s good to see we’re on the same page,” Father Ernest said, a smile in his voice, and put a hand on John’s shoulder. It made him tense, the hair on his neck standing on end - oh God while did he keep touching him - but he didn’t seem to realize it at all. “I appreciate it. I know it can’t be easy, just letting him go.”

“W-well, he is a good pupil, and I would miss teaching him--”

“And he’s good looking too, I guess, so I _could_ understand the attraction, but he doesn’t swing that way, at least as far as I know,” Father Ernest added, and suddenly the tension turned to confusion. John blinked up at him.

“What… what are you talking about?”

Father Ernest rolled his eyes. “Come on, no need to keep up the act. I know your, er, affliction, remember? I know you want Héctor, I can tell - can’t hide a thing from me,” he laughed, clearly unaware of the horrified look spreading on John’s features. “No worries, he won’t know--”

“What-- when-- no!” John screeched, tearing himself out of his grasp and taking a few steps back. He clutched even harder at the crucifix. “I-- I would never! He’s like-- a pupil, a younger brother-- to abuse my position and authority to _sway_ him--!” he felt disgusted at the mere thought, and his knees wobbled.

_Have you done anything to your brother? Your sisters!_

_Never!_

_You will, if given the chance! There’s no depravity a sodomite would not commit._

“Hey hey-- all right, my bad!” Father Ernest was saying, holding up his hands. He seemed confused. “I assumed, since you spent so much time-- huh. It wasn’t Héctor you, er. Lusted for?”

“No,” John croaked. “It was never him! Please-- oh God, please, believe me!”

“Fine, fine,” the other man said quickly. “I believe you. Lo siento. Calm down. I just-- who is it, then? I can’t think of anyone else you’re around usually that doesn’t want to kick in your teeth every hour of the--oh. _Oh_.”

The look on Father Ernest’s face - the _realization_ \- filled John with dread, shame, and an odd sort of relief in equal parts. Now that he knew, oh _God_ he knew, there was no way he could keep standing there in his presence. He would fall apart if he had to stay another moment, and he’d crumble if he had to talk about it.

“I… I’m sorry, I need… need to find the camera. And equipment. Excuse me,” he added, and almost ran past him, to the door. Part of him feared he’d grab his shoulder again, but he didn’t, and he did not call out.

Father John Johnson burst out of the sacristy, heart beating somewhere on his throat and mind reeling, and left with quick steps before anybody could walk by to see him in that sorry state - leaving a very confused, and certainly disgusted, Father Ernesto behind.

* * *

Well, now that was a surprising turn of events.

Ernesto had been so sure it was Héctor that Padre Juan had the hots for, he hadn’t considered any other possibility. It seemed so obvious, with the time he spent playing his mentor… but then again, maybe it was not.

With poor Juan horrified as he was by his inclinations, it actually made more sense for him to avoid the true object of his desire… who, luckily for him, tended to stay out of the way most of the time, muttering about errands no one knew a thing about.

“Gustavo, of all people. Would have _never_ guessed,” he muttered to no one in particular, leaving the sacristy. The guy seemed awfully dour, and as far as Ernesto was concerned he had the physical appeal of a raw potato. Not that Juan, pudgy as he was, looked much better. With that pale skin, straw-like hair and watery eyes, he looked odd. Not necessary ugly, just… odd. Exotic, in a way, but nowhere near good-looking, that was for sure. Just peculiar.

With a shrug, Ernesto pushed the thought out of his mind. Padre Juan was nowhere to be seen as he walked through the chapel and into the yard, but he did find Miguel and the twins, talking to Héctor and - well, look at that - Imelda. Sister Gisela. Whichever.

With some luck, she wouldn’t be keeping her name in Christ for much longer.

“Oh! Padre Ernesto!” Miguel called out suddenly, waving his arm. “Héctor is gonna be Jesus! Óscar and Felipe agreed and are looking for a fake beard!”

With a laugh, Ernesto clapped a hand on Héctor’s shoulder. “Perfect! I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“As long as I don’t fall off the donkey,” Héctor smiled. “I did, once.”

“Because it had been stung by a wasp and panicked,” Imelda pointed out, and smiled. It was a fond smile, and it made her all the more beautiful. It wasn’t hard to see why Héctor had fallen so hopelessly for her. She turned to Ernesto. “My sisters and I will help pick palm branches for you to bless.”

He nodded. “Perfect. Hopefully, donations will be enough to ensure a steady supply of food. Padre Juan has a plan, too, and it’s not too bad. We’ll talk about it as soon as we can get--”

“What if the army comes to take the food?” Miguel asked suddenly, looking up. It was a very real risk, they knew it. The smile on Imelda’s face froze, and Héctor’s expression turned grave.

“We’ll keep it hidden. We won’t let them starve any of us for feed their ranks,” Imelda spoke, her voice tight. She spoke like she was stating the tenets of the universe, and Ernesto had to admire that; if how she’d behaved in the Ramírez household was anything to go by, she might just decide to really try and stop them.

And get herself killed, of course. When the Federales came demanding anything, you had to give them what they wanted... and count yourself lucky they just demanded supplies and not men. He would know: he’d been one of them, raiding town after town to keep himself fed, so he could keep marching and fighting a war he didn’t give a damn about.

_But not here, they won’t. This is my town, my parish, my people. Mine. They can’t have them._

Ernesto looked back, towards the edge of the town - the desert he’d come from - before glancing back at them. Miguel had turned to look at him; of course everyone would think he was looking for reassurance from the parish priest, but that was only because they didn’t know what Miguel did. He knew he was not a priest. He knew he had been one of them… and told no one.

Ernesto made an effort to smile, and ruffled Miguel’s hair. “If Federales come,” he said slowly, thinking back of what Gustavo had said about the wine and rat poison, “let them take what they will, and reap the rewards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ernesto's amazing deductive skills at work:  
>   
>   
> 


	11. Via Crucis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On one hand I'm sorry for the delay of this chapter, but on the other hand I got to post an Easter-centric chapter on Good Friday and I'm not _that_ sorry. So, uh, happy Easter?  
>  Art is by Elletoria and Senora_Luna!

“Why is the dog here?”

“Because Miguel wanted to help and he follows Miguel everywhere.”

“We’re in a church!”

“This is an attic.”

“Of a church!”

“Look, it’s not like we let the dog do his business in the chapel,” Ernesto pointed out. Padre Juan made a face that he  _ supposed  _ meant he was conceding the point, and made sure to stay several steps away from the dog, who was sniffing enthusiastically the floor, only to sneeze out clouds of dust. That place was going to need a serious clean-up, Ernesto thought, gaze pausing on the table on the far end. He could see some empty basins, and bottles. “Not fond on dogs?”

“Not especially,” the gringo said a bit pointedly, walking up to the table. “They’re boisterous, unhygienic, and they carry--” he trailed off, stilling. “Good God, a Brownie!”

“A what?” 

“An Eastman Kodak Brownie!”

“Can you go back to speaking Spanish?”

Padre Juan turned, and Ernesto was so startled by his expression - he was grinning like a child, he really was - that at first he didn’t notice the aluminium box he was holding. “This camera,” the gringo said, holding it up. It caused Miguel, who was still struggling to contain Dante, to light up. 

“Oh! Yes, that’s Padre Edmundo’s camera! Everyone was curious about it because it doesn’t have a tripod like his old one.”

“It’s far better than I was expecting. This will make everything much easier,” Padre Juan said. He looked down at it, wiping the dust off it with his sleeve. “I had a camera much like this, Father bought it as a gift when I turned--” he trailed off suddenly, and his gaze turned oddly blank. It was such a stark contrast to his unexpected giddiness it made something in Ernesto’s stomach clench. Beside him, Miguel looked confused. 

“So, uh. These are commonplace in the States?” Ernesto asked, not really caring to know but wanting to say something to snap him out of it. Luckily, it worked: the question seemed to shake Padre Juan out of whatever thoughts crossed his mind. He nodded, the smile back on his face. 

“Yes, quite. These were a huge commercial success - it’s the No. 2 Brownie, see? An improvement on the original I used to have, that one was made of cardboard with artificial leather. Still, it served me well - astonishing in its simplicity. It uses a simple meniscus lens, the shutter is integrated-- see? And the viewfinder! My old one did not--”

“I think we get the picture,” Ernesto, who knew precisely nothing about cameras aside from the fact you’re supposed to pose in front of them, cut him off. It seemed a better thing to say than ‘it’s all Greek to me and I really don’t care’.

“What do you need to get it to work?” Miguel asked. 

The gingo looked around. “Film-- number 120, I believe. Kodak produces specific film for each specific camera. Hopefully there will be some of that around here, too. Not much point in having a camera you have no film for. I am amazed to see one of these here.”

“We don’t live on the moon, you know,” Ernesto grumbled, but he was still too taken aback by the absolute glee on the gringo’s face to be  _ too  _ annoyed. He hadn’t seen him that excited over anything before. And really, a weirdly excited Father John was easier to deal with than the sanctimonious ass he generally was. So, no complaints. 

For now.

* * *

“Run this by me again - we’re supposed to pose and look holy for the gringo.”

“Sister Sofía! Padre Ju--  _ John _ has a name and you’ll be using it! Have you learned nothi--”

“... Did you almost call him  _ Juan, _ Madre?”

“A-absolutely not! I have enough respect--”

“He keeps calling  _ you  _ Mother Gretchen.”

The remark caused Madre Gregoria’s wrinkled face to twist for a moment in the darkest scowl Imelda had ever seen on her - and that was saying… a lot. “Well, he’s a priest and--”

“An insufferable ass,” Padre Ernesto supplied, causing the old bruja to nod. 

“Yes, accurate.”

Héctor smiled a little. Behind la Madre Superiora, several nuns covered their mouths to hide a smirk, or coughed. “Really now, Madre?”

A shrug. “Well, he is the parish priest. Who am to argue his judgment?”

Padre Ernesto laughed. “Your trust moves me. To answer So-- Sister Sofía’s question, yes. He thinks some photographs would help convince… whoever there is to convince that we’re really deserving of some support. Which we need. Like, a lot. No objections there, right?”

No, of course, none at all; Imelda wasn’t surprised. Their situation was not yet desperate - donations had helped them buy some more food - but it was serious, and they needed funds to ensure a steady supply of food until… well, until harvest, at least. Or until that war was over. 

“So, he’s going to take pictures during Mass?”

“Among other things, yes. So, let’s all act like good Catholics and--”

“We  _ are  _ good Catholics,” Imelda said, maybe a bit more pointedly than she should have, and entirely ignored the glare from the Mother Superior. Padre Ernesto, however, didn’t seem fazed. Considering that their first proper introduction had happened while they both turned up at a guy’s place to beat the crap out of him, Imelda would have been surprised if he were. 

“Yes, of course, but you know how the gringo is. Let’s keep him happy.”

“He’s impossible to make happy,” Gustavo muttered sourly from his corner. It was the only contribution he’d given to the meeting up to that point, and Imelda barely held back from rolling her eyes. She noticed that Héctor’s own eyes twitched upwards for a moment before turning to her, sharing with her an exasperated look.  _ Look who’s talking. _

“This is still worth a try,” Padre Ernesto was saying, his voice calm but devoid of the usual warmth. “Let’s pose for nice pictures, so that he can argue for us and get us the money.”

“You mean  _ charity _ ,” Héctor said, causing Padre Ernesto to raise an eyebrow. 

“Was that such an important distinction to make?”

“Makes us sound better.”

“... Point taken. We need  _ charity, _ so let’s all behave and watch--”

“I’m not gonna watch my mouth,” Chicharrón loudly informed them all, despite having never been spoken to once. The old gravedigger seemed entirely unaffected by the looks he got from all nuns present, herself, and Héctor. He shrugged, leaning back on his seat, peg leg stretched before him. Imelda sort of liked him, but right there and then she’d have happily strangled him with a rosary. “Words aren’t going to show on photos, no?”

“... Fair enough,” Padre Ernesto replied. It was the voice of a man who’d decided to pick his battles, and that the one at hand was not worth fighting. “Not to worry though, I don’t think he will want to photograph you specifica--"

“Padre Ernesto should be in the photos,” la Madre Superiora spoke up suddenly. As everyone fell quiet and turned slowly to look at her, she had the good grace to look embarrassed and shrugged. “Well, he’s… appealing.”

“He is,” the Delgado window - who was mainly there due to the fact telling her anything was the quickest way to make sure the  _ entire _ village would know it by dusk - nodded in agreement. 

As all nuns suddenly looked down as though very interested in their shoes, some of them  _ coughing _ again, Imelda shot a quick glance to her left. Sofía was staring at the Mother Superior like she’d never seen her before, while Padre Ernesto looked unfazed. If anything, he seemed flattered: the smile that followed was much more of a grin. 

“Well, as the parish priest, I suppose that cannot be helped,” he said. “He will want to take pictures of the children at Mass, so make sure all those in your care look at their best.”

“Well, not  _ too _ much at their best,” Héctor muttered. “Last thing we need is for some Bishop in the States to decide we don’t look like we’re in enough trouble to get the money.”

“Charity,” Padre Ernesto corrected him, elbowing his side with a grin. “Makes us sound better, I think you said.”

Héctor laughed, and it was… nice to hear. All their meetings had been about such serious matters lately, Imelda had found she missed his laugh. “Right. Charity.”

“Also, he will take pictures of the Palm Sunday procession tomorrow, so you better be the best Jesus you can be,” Padre Ernesto added, and Héctor smiled. 

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Get ready to do the same for el Vía Crucis, too.”

Héctor’s smile faded in a confused look. “... What? Who decided I’m going to--”

Padre Ernesto waved his hand, putting an arm over his shoulders. “I did, just now. I’m sure you’ll do great. Can someone ask Prospero to get to work with the cross?”

“I already did, Padre,” Gustavo said magnanimously, and grinned in Héctor’s direction. “I told him to make it as heavy as the one our Lord had to carry,” he added, gaining himself a blank look from Héctor. It took all of Imelda’s self-control not to grab her crucifix and hurl it to his face.

“Oh, how generous,” Héctor said drily. Gustavo shrugged.

“For realism.”

_ “Of course.” _

“What a wonderful idea,” Padre Ernesto said, smiling at Gustavo as he let go of Héctor’s shoulders. “Great thinking. You should be given a part, too.”

That caused Gustavo’s own smirk to waver. “A-ah, that would be kind of you, but--”

“Oh, I insist! You earned it, after all. You’ll be Simon of Cyrene, helping out Lord carry the  _ heavy  _ cross,” he added, and Héctor had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh; Imelda could see that even from a distance. She almost smirked herself… until Padre Ernesto spoke again. “And Ime-- Sister Gisela, you’ll be Verónica.”

Santa Verónica, the woman who wiped Jesus’ face clean on his way to crucifixion. The thought made her falter a little - it seemed something too… too intimate to be doing. As she opened her mouth to protest, she didn’t notice Héctor’s foot suddenly landing on Padre Ernesto’s, causing him smile to become forced. “I’m… touched, but maybe someone else-- la Madre Superiora--”

“Ay, la Madre Superiora should be Holy Mary, I’d say,” he cut her off, and tilted his head towards Madre Gregoria, whose cheeks were quickly reddening. 

“Oh-- that would be-- a honor, but--”

“No buts, you’d be  _ amazing, _ ” Padre Ernesto replied with a wave of his hand and a wide, charming smile. Imelda could distinctly see Sofía rolling her eyes. “The other Sisters can be the women of Jerusalem. Would that be all good with you?”

As the sisters in questions nodded - several of them glancing in Imelda’s direction with knowing smirks and making her wish to kill Padre Ernesto, all of them and herself in quick succession - Padre Ernesto smiled. 

“All settled, then,” he exclaimed. “Just act at your best starting tomorrow, and Padre Ju-- John will immortalize it. Any questions?”   
“Juanita doesn’t like cameras,” Chicharrón declared. 

It took Padre Ernesto a clear effort not to roll his eyes. “We won’t involve your rooster more than strictly necessary - just make it crow three times before el Vía Crucis starts, for drama. Anything else? No? Wonderful. Now go and spread the word. And most of all, smile for the camera.”

* * *

“Are you ready or not?”

“Yes, yes. Just… give me a minute.”

“It’s an old donkey, Héctor. Are you seriously afraid to climb on a donkey?”

“It’s not that, it’s… Ceci did a great job on this tunic, but it doesn’t help and the wig keeps getti-”

“Por Dios, just get on this damn burro!”

“Hey! Careful how you speak to Jesus!” Héctor grumbled, finally sitting on the saddle. He wasn’t a good rider, be it on a donkey or a horse, and it sure wouldn’t kill Gustavo to be a bit more patient. As a response, Gustavo scoffed. 

“You’re just playing a part, cabrón.”

“Do you kiss you mamá with that mouth?” Héctor snapped back, only to of course regret it the second it left his mouth, as Gustavo’s frame stiffened. He remembered suddenly of all the times, when they’d been kids, when Gustavo had repeated over and over that he was not an orphan like them, that his mamá was alive and would be back for him soon,  _ any day now, any day now. _

Mierda. 

“I-- lo siento. I didn’t mean--”

“Just get going,” Gustavo snapped, and suddenly smacked the rear of the donkey, which bolted forward. All right, it didn’t quite  _ bolt,  _ but it set out at a quicker pace than Héctor would have liked, heading towards the main road where, he knew, all of Santa Cecilia was waiting with palm branches… and, in Padre Juan’s case, with a camera. 

Make us look good, Padre Ernesto had said, but it was easier said than done, clinging as he was to a trotting donkey. Maybe if he pulled just a little on the bridles, he could make it slow down before he made the entrance and--

“Woof! Woof!”

“Wha-- Dante?” Under Héctor’s stunned gaze, Miguel’s dog appeared - seemingly out of thin air - in front of the donkey, who abruptly slowed down, clearly taken aback by the dog walking ahead of it, head turned back to Héctor rather than towards the path ahead. With a sigh of relief, Héctor smiled. 

“Gracias,” he called out. He straightened himself on the saddle, made sure the long wig was still in place, and headed down the main road and into the town.

* * *

The whole arrangement was… picturesque, John had to admit.

People stood on both sides of the road, waving blessed palm branches, dressed up in their best clothes - which were… quite colorful, but he could allow that. After all, Jesus’ arrival to Jerusalem was a day of celebration; he would talk to Father Ernest about having people wear something slightly more subdued during the Via Crucis procession on Good Friday, later.

For now, he would take pictures.

“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Father Ernest said, his voice smug as it could be. Normally, John would have reminded that pride is the root of all other deadly sins-- but right now, he was too focused on capturing what was happening before his eyes. Father Edmund had left behind a good amount of film, but it wasn’t infinite, so he had to make each shot count. 

The parishioners with the palm branches - the people of Jerusalem celebrating Jesus’ arrival in their holy city, less than a week before turning on him, choosing the life of a criminal over his and sending him to his death.  _ Click. _

_ _

Brother Hector - a slightly unconvincing Jesus, though no for lack of trying - waving at the crowd as his donkey kept going, over the palm branches thrown in its path, towards the main square and then the church.  _ Click. _

“Maybe he should have cried.”

“... What?” Father Ernest blinked. “Why?”

“In the Gospel according to Luke-- never mind. The other three didn’t mention it, anyway.”

John moved along the road, taking more pictures - a child on his father’s shoulders holding up a branch, a little girl throwing hers right before the donkey, a woman crossing herself, the twin boys who had organised everything smiling so widely, Mich--  _ Miguel  _ with them; there was chatter and cheering and laughed, none of which the camera could capture.

_ Click. Click. Click. Click. _

By the time they reached the parish, John was smiling, holding tightly onto the camera. He took another shot as Brother Hector dismounted, the church in the background; a couple more as Father Ernesto joined him, smiled, patted his shoulder. Another one as they smiled at the children from the orphanage, crouching to take something - flowers? - from a few of the little girls. They both looked so at ease, making the children laugh, and John took more pictures.

_ Click. Click. _

Father Ernest laughed at something a boy had said, and he turned towards him, the smile still on his face. He looked positively delighted, and John’s finger froze on the shutter, heart leaping in his throat. To his relief - and a pang of something that wasn’t relief at all - Father Ernest’s eyes moved to his left, where Miguel was holding up a basket full of donations. He hadn’t been smiling at him, after all. His heart sank from his throat down to his stomach. What he felt now was not quite  _ lust,  _ but something similar and yet different, and even more terrifying.

_ Focus, focus, focus. A few more pictures, just a few more. Do your duty. _

He took several more pictures, trying to keep himself from turning the camera towards Father Ernest - but of course, when he developed them in the attic, he found he appeared in most of the shots. He told himself that was normal - he was the parish priest, he was there, that couldn’t be helped. He could almost convince himself of that, really. Just  _ almost. _

That day’s photos developed, John forced himself to tear his gaze away. He excused himself from dinner and went to his room, to deal with his affliction in the only way he knew.

* * *

“All right, we’re good to go.”

“We look nothing like women of Jerusalem,” Imelda muttered, adjusting her headdress. Of course they couldn’t change in different clothing - as nuns, they had to keep wearing their robes - which made including them in the Via Crucis procession especially stupid. 

“Well, neither will anyone else,” Sofía reasoned, and handed her a piece of linen with a smile. “Here you go,  _ Verónica. _ Make sure to wipe our Lord’s face nicely.”

Imelda took the linen with a scoff and a suggestion as to where to put it that was unbecoming of a novice, or any kind of lady in the first place. Sofía just grinned.

“With Lent almost over with, I’m really hoping to have Antonia see to that.”

“You’re the  _ worst  _ nun I have ever met.”

“And I want to keep the title, which is why I’ve been trying to get you out of here since day one.”

Wait, what? “You have some nerve, trying to imply I’d somehow be worse--”

“Assuming you’d be better? That’s pride.”

“That is common sense!” Imelda snapped, only to get an angelic smile and a pat on the hand. 

“Temper, novice. A good nun holds her temper,” she said, all sweetness and light. Madre Gregoria’s voice was the only thing that kept Imelda from using the linen cloth to strangle her. 

“Let’s get going, everyone-- you chattered enough! Silence is virtue!”

“Yes, Holy Mary,” Sofía muttered with a roll of her eyes, and Imelda felt like strangling her a little less. Maybe she’d settle for a smack, later, away from witnesses. Right now, she would just focus on the procession and getting that nonsense over with. 

She  _ really _ hoped the gringo would get them some funding from his church in the United States as he said he would, because it was the only reason why she put up with any of it.

* * *

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

“You’re not  _ sorry _ at all.”

“What kind of Jesus can’t endure a bit flagellation?”

“The kind that’s just  _ pretending  _ to be Jesus, Cheech. And that’s unnecessary, anyway. No one’s gonna see a thing until I step out.”

“Was trying to get you into the character,” Chicharrón muttered, but there was a smirk on his face when he left the sacristy, leaving him standing there with the cross - it was  _ really _ heavy, dammit - across his shoulder. Of course he was smirking, Héctor thought, adjusting the crown of thorns - not  _ real  _ thorns, thank God, which was what he’d have gotten if Gustavo had a say in it. Why had he let himself be talked into it? 

“You’re looking good,” Padre Ernesto muttered, and grinned, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Jesus Christ, heading off to steal hearts.”

“That’s… not exactly what this procession is about,” Héctor pointed out, only to be ignored.

“Now, when you come across  _ Verónica, _ make sure to look as tired and suffering as you can. And put those eyelashes to work. Don’t make my perfect casting go to waste.”

“Hijo de puta.”

“What?”

“... Praise the Lord,” Héctor muttered. Padre Ernesto laughed.

“That’s  _ just _ what I thought you’d said.”

* * *

_ This is so stupid. _

The thought kept circling in Imelda’s head as her hands clenched on the linen cloth she was supposed to use to dry Héctor’s face. Jesus’ face, really - that was how she should think of it. For as long as the procession went, Héctor was meant to be symbolically represent the son of God, so it wasn’t  _ his _ face she’d be wiping, not really. In a way, it made sense.

… Except that it didn’t, who was she kidding? She got stuck into that stupid role because Padre Ernesto didn’t know any better - she refused to consider he had  _ known  _ about the implications because he was the parish priest, por Dios, for all his eccentricities he wouldn’t do a such thing - and now she would have to wipe Héctor’s face.

Which wasn’t supposed to be a big deal at all, but it  _ was _ and she rather resented that.

_ This is ridiculous. It will take a moment. I’ll do it, and it will be over with. _

The cheering went up, and Imelda looked down the road to see that Héctor was staggering forward, rather good at feigning exhaustion despite the fact he wasn’t carrying the cross: that was currently being dragged by Gustavo, as the angriest  Simon of Cyrene Imelda had ever witnessed. Despite everything, it made her smirk a little. 

_ Serves him right. _

Of course, all too soon he had done his part and he quite literally  _ dropped _ the wooden cross right back on Héctor. He staggered - Imelda suspected it wasn’t an act at all now - and kept walking, dragging the cross… until, of course, he paused before her. 

He looked… awful, really: his exhaustion hadn’t been an act. Panting, all sweaty and wig askew, with hair stuck to his face and neck, he sure looked the part of the suffering man condemned to death. Nothing especially pleasant to look at, and yet…

… And  _ yet. _

Héctor looked back at her, and he seemed to freeze for a moment. There was nothing unusual about her appearance, she was sure, but his eyes were wide and fixed, jaw slack like he was looking at something incredible. He looked mesmerized-- something in her stomach twisted-- oh God, she had to do  _ something. _

Imelda leaned forward and went to wipe his face - gently, carefully. To her relief, his eyes closed a moment. One more moment of that gaze, and… she didn’t know what she’d do or say, and she she was glad she didn’t have to find out. When he opened his eyes to look at her again, he looked oddly lost - then he recoiled when Imelda sharply tilted her head -  _ go ahead _ . 

He staggered away, wavering a little more than he had before. She watched him go on for a time, dragging the cross. Some distance ahead were the other sisters, as the women of Jerusalem, but Imelda refused to look their way, keeping her gaze fixed on the cross. Any moment now he would have the second fall, then… then… wasn’t he supposed to fall about now, before reaching her sisters?

“Fall, Héctor,” she heard Miguel muttering, perfectly audible somewhere the left. “You must fall!”

Something that looked suspiciously like Chicharrón’s peg leg shot shead from somewhere in the crowd, hitting Héctor behind a knee and causing him to  _ finally  _ fall for the second time. Only a couple more stations, and then he would get to the point where Jesus would stripped of his clothes aaand no, no, she had to turn her thoughts to something else entirely just about now.

Imelda looked down at the linen cloth in her hands, face aflame and all to aware of several pairs of eyes fixed on her.

* * *

“Everything hurts.”

“I think you did great.”

“Everything hurts everywhere. I was not  _ supposed  _ to fall off the cross. ”

“But you absolutely nailed it the second time. Heh, _nailed,_ get i--”

“Suffering is the meaning of the Good Friday, Brother Héctor. Certainly your pain is nothing compared to what our Lord went through.”

Padre Juan’s voice seemed to lower the temperature in the chapel by several degrees, causing Héctor to still, hand halfway to his aching back, and Ernesto to roll his eyes. Whatever magic finding that camera had worked on the gringo, it clearly had ran its course: he was even more standoffish than usual, lately, and ate his meals in his room rather than joining them. 

He spoke little with anyone, and with him even less; he was stiff even in the way he stood, and when he sat he hardly even touched the backrest. It made Ernesto wonder what exactly had crawled up the guy’s ass and died, but he decided to  _ try _ being civil. 

“Taken good pictures?” he asked. 

A sharp nod. “Quite,” was the curt reply. No more details, no giddy talk about the photos he’d taken and how good the camera was. “No, I’d like to use this chapel for its purpose and pray.”

Héctor and Ernesto glanced at each other with one clear, shared thought -  _ the hell is wrong with him now? _ \- and it was Héctor to try again. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us--”

“You’re welcome to join  _ me _ in prayer, if you can be bothered,” Padre Juan snapped, kneeling. He did so slowly and stiffly, and maybe Ernesto should have wondered, but he did not: he was just too annoyed. Padre Culo Blanco could be an ass all he wanted: Ernesto was done worrying for him. He had no idea when or  _ why _ he’d even started worrying in the first place. 

“Maybe later,” he muttered, and turned to talk out of the chapel, gesturing for Héctor to follow him so that they could talk more about the very obvious  _ look  _ he and Imelda had exchanged during the procession.

Neither of them noticed the way Father John’s features twisted in a pained grimace as he braced his elbows, leaned his forehead on his joined hands, and prayed in silence.

* * *

“You know, you were close enough to kiss.”

“I am not hearing this.”

“I’m sure you thought of it.”

“I did not!”

“You were turning  _ red,  _ Imelda.”

Oh, damn her. She couldn’t deny that, could she? “... I wasn’t thinking of kissing him,” she finally muttered. After all, it was not a lie. She’d been thinking of him nearly naked.

Far from discouraged, Sofía raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what  _ were _ you imagining?”

“None of your business. Are we done now? We have  _ priorities _ here,” Imelda snapped, putting some more rolls of clean bandages and disinfectant - she could even get her hand on some morphine, in case someone needed to dull the pain - in what had been a fruit crate long ago.

“Yes, yes, the medical supplies. Viva la Revolución. We can still talk while we do this.”

Imelda groaned. “And do we  _ absolutely _ have to?”

Sofía grinned. “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, we do.”

* * *

“This is awfully unnecessary.”

“First time seeing la quema de Judas?”

“The-- the hanging and burning of some puppet is-- unbecoming of such a solemn occasion!”

“I’m pretty sure they do that somewhere in Europe, too. Feliz Sabado de Gloria.”

“That doesn’t make it appropriate!”

“Look, we’re burning Judas. We’ve got more than a few reasons to be sort of pissed at Judas.”

“That thing doesn’t even  _ look _ like him.”

“... What, you knew him personally now?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Padre Juan grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring at the scene before him. The effigy of Judas was hanging high, on a rope stretched between two houses at the opposite sides of the plaza. Truth be told, it looked an  _ awful _ lot like Victoriano Huerta; it was clear to everyone as it was clear to the gringo, but of course none of them said as much aloud. 

Plus, at least they hadn’t made him white as someone had suggested only half-jokingly at one point. Ernesto felt the gringo had no reason to complain there. “Not taking any pictures?” he asked, lightly elbowing him as he kept watching the crowd all around the effigy parting to allow Miguel to walk up to it, head held high and all solemn-eyed, holding a burning torch. 

Padre Juan scoffed, stepping aside. “I’m supposed to try making the lot of you look virtuous.”

“Burning evil is virtuous. I think. The Church did that a lot.”

“Dark and ignorant times,” was the sour reply. “Evil is to be vanquished from our lives each day, every day. There is no need nor point to make a… a spectacle out of it.”

Ernesto rolled his eyes and turned to retort, but words died in his mouth when he noticed one of Padre Juan’s hands had slipped under his sleeve where, he knew, this fingers were now running over a thin raised scar. His mouth was pulled in a tight line, skin even paler than usual; Ernesto paid no mind to that. Only minutes later, he’d wish he had.

_ I tried to raise my arm to shield myself of the rightful punishment. They did the right thing. _

“... Well, you know. It’s a bit of a distraction for what’s going on,” he muttered in the end.

“Comfort should be sought in prayer, not with these-- fetishes,” he pointed out stiffly, but he let the matter drop. Not that Ernesto would have heard him either way, because the next moment two very familiar voices reached him. 

“Hola, Padre!”

“Like our Judas?”

Ernesto glanced down at Imelda’s brothers, and grinned. “Love it,” he said. It was true: he liked the idea of watching the face of the bastard who’d had him drafted in that damn army go up in flames. He liked it a lot. “Padre Juan here was  _ just _ saying how impressed he is,” he added. The gringo stiffened, but the boys paid him no mind. 

“Thank you for letting us put fireworks in the effigy!”

“Ah, you’re wel--” Ernesto trailed off, brain finally catching up. By his side, Padre Juan looked  _ extremely  _ alarmed. “Wait-- I didn’t give you permission to stuff fireworks in it!”

The boys gave him two wide, identical grins. 

“But you didn’t tell us  _ not  _ to.”

“Ah. Mierda.”

“Father Ernest! Langua--”

The rest of the tirade never happened, because Miguel had set fire to the effigy of Judas and that was it. A loud crackling noise, followed my whistles and smoke, caused the crowd in the plaza to back away from the effigy - but none of them seemed scared, or even particularly surprised, which Ernesto supposed could be put down to the fact most of them knew what to expect from the twins. 

Flames enveloped the effigy, and more bangs rang out, greeted with cheers and laughter. Judas, aflame, rocked on one side and then the other before yet another bang caused it to jolt; the rope holding it up gave in, and the remains fell on the ground, jolting with each subsequent crackle to roaring laughter - including Ernesto’s own.

“That was great!” Miguel exclaimed, seemingly having popped by him out of nowhere after setting Judas on fire and dropping the torch. “Wait, where is Dante? Aw, I think he got scared…”

“There was-- nothing great about it!” Padre Juan snapped. People around them were already rolling their eyes and muttering to one another, bright smiles fading. “That was an awfully irresponsible and-- and blasphemous--”

All right, enough. He wasn’t going to let him sour the mood for everyone, so Ernesto forced himself to smile. “Hah! Come on, it was funny. Lighten up,” he laughed, and slapped a hand on his back. 

John  _ screamed. _

It was unexpected, and loud enough to make everyone fall into a stunned silence. Ernesto stepped back, struggling to understand what the hell had just happened, just as the gringo took a staggering step forward and then sank on his knees, trying and failing to hold back something that sounded much like a sob. His skin, already even paler than usual, was now chalk white; he wheezed like all air had been used up for his cry.

“Pad-- Father John?”

“What is it?”

“Is he all right?”

“Come on, it was just a pat!”

“Is he pretending?”

“He’s got to be, it was nothing!”

“What is it with gringos…”

“Ju-- John?” Ernesto called out, still taken aback, and crouched. Father John Johnson was hunched over as though in immense pain - eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched and face reddened. It was alarming as it was, but seeing tears escaping the corner of his eyes made it worse. “What is it? That wasn’t me, I didn’t-- can you stand up, or…?”

“Make way,” someone spoke, and suddenly Sofía was there, crouching next to him. “What did you do?” she hissed.

Ernesto blinked. “Nothing! You saw it, it was just a--”

“I'm not talking to you,” she cut him off, giving Padre Juan an exasperated look before glancing back, at the crowd around them. Miguel and the twins looked completely lost, and a few men were moving closer, Héctor first of all. 

“What happened? Is he ill?” he asked, eyes shifting to Ernesto like he thought he had an explanation. And he didn’t… but someone else did, or so it sounded like.

“It's nothing serious,” Sofía replied. “Call doctor Sanchez to the parish, we’ll take it from here.”

“N-no, I don’t need--” Padre Juan mumbled, but no one bothered to listen. Sofía glanced at Ernesto, who nodded and grabbed the gringo’s arm, passing over his shoulders before he stood. The idea was to help him walk, but he was so limp he pretty much had to carry him. 

Only once they got to the parish, with no one else around and Padre Juan seemingly semi-conscious, did he speak again. “So, what is the deal with him? You sound like you know what the hell is going on and I’d really appreciate being filled in, because--”

Sofía sighed. “I think this idiota whipped himself raw.”

_ “What??” _

“Explains the shriek when you gave him a pat. Don’t ask why, I have no clue whatsoever,” she added, entirely unaware that Ernesto  _ did,  _ in fact, have a clue. More than just a clue, really.

_ I need penance, _ he’d said.  _ Prayer is not enough, _ he’d said.

“Crazy gringo,” he muttered under his breath as he carried him inside, hoping he hadn’t fucked himself up too badly.

* * *

“Not a bad place to be, huh? God, I was never in Veracruz before and I already love it.”

“Mph.”

“Oh, come on. It’s much better than marching under the sun all day. Getting stationed to Veracruz is the best thing that happened to any of us since this damn war started.”

“It’s the best thing that happened to me since your wife, Sergio!”

“Shut up, cabrón! At least I have a wife!”

“And who knows who  _ else _ has her now!”

There was laughter, a couple of glasses thrown on a background of drunken singing. It made Santiago scoff, and he finished his own glass, sitting on the stone steps a little outside the cantina where half of his battalion spent much of their time, drinking and boasting and doing little else. He stared down towards the harbor and the sea, a thoughtful frown on his face.

Discipline had never been all that great, with so many of his comrades having been picked up from the streets or out of prisons; however, it was quickly getting out of hand now that they were there - supposedly to defend Veracruz in case the Constitutional Army decided to attack.

_ What a joke. Most of the men here couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag. _

Not that anyone really expected to fight, with Carranza’s forces far enough not to be an imminent threat; by all accounts, they had little to nothing to worry about, and yet… and  _ yet. _

“A peso for your thoughts,” Nando spoke somewhere behind him, and then he was sitting on the steps by him, a shot glass in each hand. He handed one to him. “As long as it’s not something on how we should be down south looking for de la Cruz, in which case I don’t want to hear it.”

Santiago let out another scoff, but he did accept the glass. “I’m thinking a bunch of children in a wooden cart could overpower us if they show up right now with all men drunk.”

“Oh, come now. They’re away from their families and celebrating Easter, and no one is coming.”

“We’re getting too comfortable.”

“And you’re too uptight. Come on, drink-- ah, look, midnight! Feliz Domingo de Pascua.”

They toasted, drank, and Santiago made an effort enjoy the uneventful Easter in Veracruz as much as he could, trying not to think of of how wrong it was, not having Beto there to enjoy the relative peace with him. 

And trying to ignore the gut feeling that it wouldn’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra art by Elletoria:
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	12. Loose Lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, not all secrets stay _secret_ forever.
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> Art by Senora_Luna.

“What, pray tell, the _fuck._ ”

If doctor Sanchéz found Ernesto’s outburst unbecoming of a priest, he didn’t bother to point it out. The crazy gringo would probably have protested, except that he was currently out cold on the bed, leaning on his stomach, back exposed - which was precisely what had prompted the less than priestly comment.

His back was a complete, absolute mess: a criss-cross of old faded scars and newer ones, covered in recent wounds at various stages of healing, all welts and scabs and broken skin  oozing fluids here and there. Ernesto wasn’t a doctor any more than he was a priest, but he could recognize the signs of infection when he saw them.

“Not the _worst_ I’ve seen,” doctor Sanchéz muttered, and well, Ernesto could second that. He’d seen men whipped raw with riding crops as punishment in the military, hard enough to carve out bits of flesh - but this was still bad and, well, entirely self-inflicted.

“That looks like infection.”

“I noticed, thanks,” the doctor said just a bit too curtly, reaching for his bag and pulling out a bottle of alcohol, clean towels, and some iodine. “I’ll see to that. _You_ should see that he stops this madness, because if he keeps at it some disinfectant is not going to be enough.”

 _I thought I had seen to it,_ Ernesto thought, but said nothing. He just stepped back to let doctor Sanchéz do his job, and recoiled when something tapped his shoulder-- a whip. And, holding that whip, was Sofía.

“Here it is,” she muttered. “Keep it away from him.”

“... Right.” Ernesto took it, and noticed it was spotless - not a single speck of blood.

 _He cleans it after each use. Of course he would,_ he thought, and suddenly felt sick. He glanced to the bed John was resting on, eyes shut and skin pale even against the white pillow. He’d found it so amusing, being the only one to know Padre Juan’s secret… but now it wasn’t funny anymore. As doctor Sanchéz began to clean the wounds with alcohol, he barely twitched; his breath caught in his throat, but he did not regain consciousness or open his eyes.

“How did you know he was doing… this?”

Sofía shrugged. “I was keeping an eye on him, and I knew he had a whip. No one screams that hard and _faints_ for a pat on the back,” she muttered, then glanced at him, somewhat inquisitive. “You _didn’t_ know?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you nothing? Like in confessions, or…?”

_It’s not enough, never enough! I deserve-- I need-- I tried! I tried every prayer, every penance!_

Ernesto tried to ignore the weight in his stomach, like he’d swallowed lead. Could he have noticed something, if he’d looked? He remembered joking with Héctor that the gringo must have a rod up his ass once, because he sat so upright his back rarely did touch the backrest. The real explanation was… nowhere as fun.

“Padre Ernesto?” Sofía called out,

“... He didn’t mention self-flagellation,” he finally said.

“The correct answer, by the way, would be that the secret of confession is sacred.’

“Oh, give me a break. I’m not telling you what he confessed, just what he did _not_ confess. He didn’t come to me telling me he was self-flagellating in his spare time.”

“Any clue as to _why_ he’s done this?”

_No penance? But how else am I to heal this perversion?_

He could tell her, he knew. She kept her mouth shut when it mattered and, given how she and several of her Sisters _usually_ spent their nights - _“Can’t wait for Lent to be over with so that Antonia is available again,”_ she’d said - Ernesto knew she was on no high ground to pass judgment. No higher than his own, at any rate; somehow, though, he doubted the approval of a fake priest and a less than chaste nun would be of much comfort to Father John.

“... The secret of confession is sacred,” he finally said, gaining himself an elbow in his ribs.

“Really no--” she began, but a look at his face made her trail off. Ernesto wasn’t sure what she saw in his expression--  
_don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks_ _  
_ \-- but at any rate, it made her fall silent. That or the presence of the doctor, who was focusing on Padre Juan’s back but was still well within earshot.

“... Fair,” she conceded, then, “What are we going to tell everyone?”

“That I can’t control my miraculous strength and am very sorry I hurt him.”

“Idiota.”

“Show some respect to the parish priest.”

_“Cabrón.”_

“Please, don’t mind me. I did not just hear any of that,” doctor Sanchéz announced, then he put the bottle of iodine on the nightstand, took his bag, and stood from the chair. On the bed, Father John was still unconscious; his devastated back was covered in a layer of yellowish iodine.

“I gave him a sedative, so he should be out for a while longer. When he wakes up, make sure he stays down like this. No clothes on his back, no sheets, absolutely no bandages unless he wants to deal with iodine burns on top of everything else. Let the wounds breathe. You may hit him over the head,” he added, turning. “For therapeutic purposes.”

Sofía smiled. “I’ll make sure to administer the medication as prescribed,” she muttered, and Ernesto smiled a little as well. Truth be told, he may just smack that idiot in the head himself when he woke up. With no therapeutic intents whatsoever.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” the doctor kept going. “It’s best if someone stays with him through the night, to make sure he doesn’t turn around in his sleep. Or does something stupid when awake.”

“... Of course. About that, huh--”

“If asked, I’ll say he had a neglected wound on his back that got infected,” doctor Sanchéz cut him off. “No offense, but I don’t think anyone would believe you have such Herculean strength to reduce men unconscious by patting their back.”

“None taken,” Ernesto muttered, taking _just_ a little offense. He was rather sure at least some people would belive it. The children, maybe.

“Good. Now, I don’t wish to lie-- but a little omission is not quite a lie.”

“I like the way you think.”

“Gracias. I’ll leave some painkillers here, in case it’s needed.”

After a few more thanks, as Sofía saw the doctor out, Ernesto sighed and sat down on the chair by the bed, looking down at the unconscious gringo on it. He frowned even in his sleep, but at least he was resting and couldn’t fuck himself up any worse for time being.

And when Ernesto uttered a slew of insults he did so under his breath, so not to wake him up.

* * *

“So, what _happened_ with Padre Ju-- John?”

“Padre Ernesto is so freakishly strong, he broke his back with one pat.”

“He did not!”

“... He’d be very disappointed to know you didn’t believe it for a second,” Sofía muttered, causing Miguel to cross his arms. Truth be told, for a moment he’d… not really believed it, but could have almost contemplated it. It had been so sudden and downright scary, the _scream_ and the way his knees had given in, and he didn’t know what to think.

“So what happened?” Imelda asked. Her arms were crossed over her chest, too, and beside her Héctor looked… a little pale. Cheech was sitting on a chair entirely backwards, and looked like he couldn’t care less either way. And Gustavo… well, as the sexton he should at least be present, but come to think of it Miguel hadn’t seen him around in the past few hours. He seemed to spend a lot of time away, lately.

“An infected wound on his back,” Sofía said with a shrug. “Padre Ernesto didn’t know it was there, struck it, and that hurt. Now, Miguel-- you go back to the celebrations, sí? You can tell everyone who asks that Padre Juan is doing well.”

“Who asked?” Felipe piped in, turning to Óscar, who shrugged.

“No one did.”

As annoying and patronizing as Padre Juan could get, hearing that still made Miguel feel bad. He wasn’t _all_ bad: when he’d asked to be called _Miguel_ had agreed, and… and…

_“You know what Saint Michael Archangel did?”_

_“He chased the devil away from heaven.”_

_“My younger brother loved that passage. His name was Michael, too. I read it to him very often.”_

“I asked,” he protested, frowning. Ernesto, he thought, Ernesto would tell him what was going on; he could tell Sofía wanted him to get out of there before telling the others more. “Where is Padre Ernesto?”

“He’s staying with Padre Juan.”

“Can I see him?”

“Miguel,” Imelda spoke, her voice firm, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You go back outside, and leave this to us.”

“But--”

“Óscar, Felipe, you too.”

“Ay, but Imelda--”

“It wasn’t a _request,_ muchachos.”

They walked back outside to sunlight and celebrations, but Miguel found he couldn’t enjoy any of it the way Óscar and Felipe and all the kids did. He stood some distance away, kicking the dirt, until _something_ suddenly slammed into him, sending him sprawling on the ground.

“Ooof!”

“Woof!”

“Aw, Dante!”

A slobbery lick to his face and Dante was off again, running around the parish. Miguel finally laughed and gave chase, around a corner and then another… only to suddenly stop when he saw Dante on his back on the ground, tail wagging and tongue flailing.

And just above him, an open window leading back inside the parish.

* * *

“You know they’re going to get you in the end, don’t you?”

The voice that rang out was raspier than it used to be, coming from a throat full of sand. Ernesto knew who it was; he didn’t need, nor want, to turn. He knew who was there with him, sitting at the desk at the other end of the room, and he knew he was putting two glasses down on in.

He shouldn’t have been able to know any of it without looking but, then again, neither should _he_ have been there. None of it made sense, and yet he felt no surprise. No dread. No fear, but he knew that wasn’t long in coming.

Ernesto spoke staring down at John Johnson’s motionless form. “You’re dead.”

“And soon you’ll join me. Isn't that great?” Alberto gave a gravelly laugh. There was a sound of sloshing liquid, something being poured in the glasses. “They’re scouring Mexico as we speak. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I was only a soldier. I heard a whole Regiment revolted since I left. They can’t be looking that hard for me.” He could smell something overpowering the scent of iodine now, tequila and gunpowder and blood. On the bed, Padre Juan was even paler than usual. _Too_ pale. Dead.

“Oh, but they only need to stumble on you. Someone who has seen your face, and that will be the end. No one here will risk their neck to defend you. You lied to them all.”

That was true, he knew it, but oh did he hate the thought. He shook his head. “Héctor would--”

“And then Federales would turn on this town, for _hiding_ you. Give away an imposter to save their own. It’s not a hard choice, Nesto. Even for those of them who wouldn’t shoot you on sight if they knew the truth.” The creak of a chair’s backrest being leaned onto, or that of stiff sinews. A glass was put down. “You’re starting to feel comfortable. That’s when they get you. I would know - I was comfortable around you. Join me before they come. Leave on your own terms.”

 _Chicharrón convinced Padre Edmundo to buy a lot of rat poison,_ Gustavo has said. _So we have a lot of wine and a lot of poison, stored next to each other._

“Come on. Have a drink.”

“No.” Ernesto clenched his fists, gaze still fixed on Father John Johnson’s lifeless face. His eyes were beginning to sink into the flesh, skin gray. His back oozed blood. “That won’t be how I die.”

“Why not? That’s how rats die.”

“I’m not a rat. I’m just trying to survive.”

“A runaway dog, then. A bullet may be best, that’s how you end a rabid dog. You still have the pistol hidden away in your room. You can use it on yourself like you used it on the boy.”

Ernesto opened his mouth, but no words came out. It was as though all air had been blown out of his lungs. With the mind’s eye, he could see Miguel grinning up at him. _You’re not a real priest,_ he’d said, and then, as Ernesto found himself thinking of ways to silence him for good…

_You’re a good guy._

“No,” he rasped. He’d thought about it, yes, but… “I did not. I didn’t do it. Didn’t have to.”

“Are you sure?” Alberto’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “Are you really, really sure?”

He was sure, yes-- wasn’t he? His memory was hazy. He’d… considered it, but then the boy…

“Ernesto?” Miguel’s voice called out somewhere on his left, causing Ernesto to still, blood freezing in his veins. It sounded so distant and hollow, like the ring of a death knell.

“No. No, I--” he tried, and words died in his mouth. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. He could only sit, staring at the gringo’s corpse on the bed as the floorboard creaked, closer and closer.

“Padre,” Miguel called again, and cold, dead fingers closed around his wrist like a vise.

* * *

_“No!”_

“Gah! Ern-- Padre, it’s just m--”

“I didn’t-- I _didn’t--_ ”

“Hey, careful!”

_Thud._

Under Miguel’s stunned gaze, Ernesto - who had jerked awake and up like a puppet on a spring the second he’d touched his wrist, snatching his arm from his grasp and trying to back away only to stumble on the chair he’d been sleeping onto - fell back on the floor with a yelp, dragging the chair with him.

On the bed, Father John’s eyelids twitched a moment at the bang, but he didn’t wake up; something Miguel would have been relieved to see, if he’d been looking at all. At the moment his full attention was on the man on a heap on the floor, still shaking, looking up at him with wide eyes like some of the other children in the orphanage did sometimes, after a very bad dream. That expression was so far removed from anything he’d ever seen of Ernesto, it made a shiver run down his spine.

“... Miguel,” Ernesto muttered after a few moments of silence, and let out a long breath. “Don’t _ever_ do that again. You, uh…”

“Scared the crap out of you?”

“Startled me,” Ernesto corrected him just a little pointedly before standing up, brushing his cassock and drawing in and out another deep breath. “Why-- what are you sneaking up on me for?” he added, brushing back his hair.

Miguel frowned, crossing his arms. “I didn’t sneak on you! I just tried to wake you up.”

“And why are you here in the first place?”

“I found an open window.”

“That’s the answer to _how,_ not why.”

“I wanted to check on Padre Ju-- John,” Miguel replied. He turned to look at the man in question - really _look_ at him - for the first time since stepping in, and… and… “What… what _happened_ to him?” he managed, his voice thin. Sofía had talked about an infected wound, but what he saw there was a _ruin._ It was wound upon wound upon wound, and beneath the iodine he could hardly see _any_ healthy skin left. It reminded him, vividly, of pictures he had seen of Jesus after flagellation.

He stared, numb and incredulous, as Ernesto slowly put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s resting now, the doctor sedated him. Get back out and--”

“Who… who did _this_ to him?”

“... No one did, niño.”

The thing that had just begun to replace the horror - a reassuring _anger_ \- sputtered and died, leaving him with only confusion at first and then an even bigger sort of horror. Why would any man do a such thing to himself? He couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around it. It was incomprehensible. “He-- he didn’t!”

“Miguel, you shouldn’t be--”

“Why?” He turned to look up at Ernesto, reeling, looking for an answer. The other adults wouldn’t tell him, Héctor would try to spare him, but surely _he_ would tell him how it was. He knew he could be trusted with the truth. “Why did he do it?”

“... For penance.”

“Over what?”

“I can’t tell you. It was confess--”

“That doesn’t matter! It’s not like it was a real confession!”

“Miguel--”

“You’re not even a real prie--”

 _“Enough!”_ He moved so quickly Miguel had no time to even realize it, no time to react: one moment he was standing by the wall and the next he was pinned _against_ it, a hand around his throat, tight enough to cut off all air. He looked up, stunned, to see Ernesto’s features twisted in… anger? Terror? Both? Whatever it was, it turned into something closer to horror before Miguel’s surprise had the time to morph into fear. The hand on his throat was gone the next moment, and Ernesto crouched in front of him, grasping both of his shoulders.

“Don’t,” he hissed, his grip tight. “It could get me _killed,_ Miguel. You must never say it aloud again, do you understand? Don’t make me-- remind you again.”

The last few words were almost choked out, and for a fleeting moment Miguel wondered what he’d _really_ been about to say. For that one moment, he wondered how much he really _knew_ about the man before him, the musician turned soldier, then fugitive, then priest. A fake priest. What else about him was a lie?

It was a terrifying thought, and Miguel chose to shut it out. He swallowed, still feeling a tightness in his throat, and nodded slowly. It occurred to him that he’d never seen a grown man looking so _scared,_ maybe save that one time he’d fallen off a tree and Héctor had rushed to him as he lay on the ground, all breath knocked out of him.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He found he couldn’t make himself speak any louder than that, but it must have been enough for Ernesto, because he flinched and let go of him like he’d caught fire. He stood, brushing his cassock again, then cleared his throat.

“... It’s all right, muchacho. Go outside-- I’ll deal with everything here.”

The room felt so small, Miguel was all too eager to be out; in the back of his mind there was an irrational fear that Ernesto would grab him again before he made it to the door, but he did not; when Miguel stopped at the doorway and turned back, he was sitting on the chair, hunched slightly forward and giving him his back. He hesitated, then he spoke again, quietly.

“Maybe it wouldn’t get you killed. Actually, I’m… almost sure it wouldn’t. Héctor would never. He’d help you.”

“... That’s nice to know, niño.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I believe you.” Ernesto spoke without speaking, still sitting at Father John’s bedside. “But not everyone is like him.”

“People here like you. And-- everyone knows people are forced into the Federal Army, and you _left._ They would protect you. Most of them.”

“But not all. And loose lips sink ships.” A long, heavy sigh. “Keep quiet about it, Miguel, and all will be well.”

Miguel opened his mouth to argue, but then something - a tenseness in Ernesto’s shoulders - made him change his mind. “... All right,” he murmured, and ran back to the window to go outside, away from the tiny room, the two men in it, and the secrets they hid.

* * *

“... All right. Now that it’s just the three of us, has either of you got the slightest clue as to what may be the gringo’s issue? Because Padre Ernesto does, but he babbles about the secret of confession when I ask.”

“As he _should,_ given he’s the parish priest,” Imelda muttered. Sofía seemed to take absolutely no notice of her remark, and just put down three glasses half-filled with wine. Imelda took hers and gulped down a mouthful. “Besides, you are the one who searched his room.”

“And found nothing relevant. Héctor is the one who translated the letter, and it only said he’d been disowned from his family after he converted. Sucks to be him, but that can’t be the reason why he’s… doing… all right, what _is_ that look?”

Héctor cringed a little when Sofía stared at him, and Imelda turned to do just the same. Grasping the glass of wine on the table before him so tightly his knuckles were turning white, he was well aware that he had to look all the world like a hare caught in a snare, looking at an approaching coyote.

“I, uh…” he tried to smile, showing off his missing front tooth, only for the two women to slowly glance at each other and then back at him.

“Héctor,” Imelda spoke, her voice velvet-clad iron. “Was that _all_ the letter said.”

“Weeeell, technically… yes.”

“Technically.”

“It… it was really from his father, and he did sign as ‘Reverend Johnson’. So Father John must be a convert. And the letter was definitely to disown him - he wrote to them, but was rejected.”

Imelda stared at him; he could almost see the cogs in her mind working. “You didn’t lie.”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“So what did you _omit,_ Héctor?”

Ah, there it was. He swallowed, shifting on the seat. “It is nothing… nothing dangerous, or that anyone would have needed to know. I swear. I would have told you if…” he paused, and sighed. “You must promise me, this never leaves this room.”

“Depends on what _this_ is.”

“It’s nothing we should concern ourselves about, and-- it could destroy him.”

“All the more reason to--”

“Sofía,” Imelda cut her off, her voice sharp, then turned back to him. There was something in her gaze that stung, something not too far away from a sense of _betrayal,_ but she nodded, giving him a chance to explain. With a sigh, Héctor decided to do just that.

“... All right. That was really all that the letter said. But the place Father John kept it… in the Bible, well… it was on a page of Leviticus. One passage was underlined - 20:13. He underlined nothing else in the entire book, as far as I could see.”

None of them spoke for several moments, his words hanging in the air. Imelda kept staring at him, and he could see comprehension dawning on her face just as Sofía spoke.

“If a man sleeps with a man as with a woman, they have both committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them,” she quoted, and tilted her head. “Good thing it says nothing about two women.”

“Technically, in Paul’s letters to the Romans--”

“The Romans chopped off his head, so look how well that worked out,” Sofía cut her off, and turned back to Héctor. “Padre Juan, a maricón. Well, that explains... a lot.”

Yes, it certainly did: it explained why Father John Johnson punished himself in such a way and why Padre Ernesto - not someone all _that_ strict when it came to rules - balked at the prospect of breaking the secret of his confession. Héctor sighed.

“I’m sorry I kept this from you. But I figured… well, it was of no relevance knowing _why_ his family disowned him, and he’s beating himself up over it as it is - _literally_ beating himself up,” he added, glancing at Imelda. Even in her surprise, she nodded. There was something on her face that seemed pity for a moment, then it was gone and her voice rang out, practical as always.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s of no relevance, and it will never leave this room. We have other concerns. Padre Ernesto can help him.”

“One way or another,” Sofía murmured.

“Sorry, what?”

She gave a bright smile. “Oh, nothing,” she said lightly, and stood to grab the bottle again, refilling the glasses. “Nothing at all.”

* * *

The first thing John realized when he finally regained consciousness was that it was… dark. Even after he opened his eyes, light was scarce; he could see a bare wall, and the shadows cast on it by the flickering light of a candle at his bedside. His back was _burning._

It was confusing and somewhat terrifying, because he’d been standing in full daylight only _moments_ earlier… hadn’t he? He remembered watching the effigy of Judas burn, the explosions; he had been saying something-- someone had replied, laughing, and then… then…

“Juan?”

The memory of searing pain in his back hit him the same moment he heard Father Ernest’s voice, the same moment he realized he was in his bed, his back bared, and panic closed his throat. “Wh-what is the meaning of-- what am I-- what are you--!” John choked out, heart hammering, ignoring the steady throb of his burning back. He tried to pull himself up, only to still when he realized that beneath the sheets pulled up to his waist he was _bare._ “Who…?”

“Hey, hey,” Father Ernest was saying, putting a hand on the back of his head to push him back down on the mattress. He almost fell back on it, head spinning, feeling faint. “Stay down.”

“Who-- who _disrobed_ me?” John managed, his voice thin with dread. Oh God, it _hadn’t_ been him, had it? He felt so mortified as things were; if he told him he’d been the one to take the cassock and shift off him, he may very well die of shame there and then. He reached down blindly to grab the sheets, to pull it up over his back.

“Doctor Sanchéz did, how else was he supposed-- no, no!” The sheets were snatched from his hand, and dropped back down across his waist. “He said not to cover the wounds.”

“A-avert your eyes!” John protested, but he didn’t dare reach down for the sheets again; part of him feared Father Ernesto would tear it off him entirely if he tried, and that was the _very_ last thing his mind wanted to envision. He struggled to lift himself on his elbows, blood rushing in his ears. “What-- why am I here? Why are you here?”

Father Ernest scoffed. “You just went and fainted on us, Juan. The doctor told us to keep an eye on you.”

_Us? Oh God, how many people have seen?_

“That-- that was generous of you,” he choked out. “I’m-- better now. Apologies for fainting.”

“Apologies for-- are you _serious,_ Juan?”

John swallowed, looking down at the pillow. He couldn’t even bring himself to correct him on his name, his voice too shaky to trust. “W-well, I'm-- good, so you-- you can be on your wa--”

“The wounds were _infected._ Were you planning to go on like this until we’d have to skip straight to the last rites?”

 _It’s not so bad. Can’t have been so bad. He’s trying to scare me,_ John thought, but there was a coldness in the pit of his stomach that refused to fade. He swallowed. “I--”

“Why did you do this?”

_Good God, my child, who has done this to you?_

Father’s Joseph’s voice, rang out in the back of John’s mind. It made him want to weep - so many years and miles away, still an abject sinner no holy man could help. Still, he held back.

“Its penance, for my sinful thoughts. Any self-respecting--”

“It’s _suicide,_ idiota,” Father Ernest snapped, causing him to recoil. “Last I checked, that is a capital sin!”

“I didn’t mean to kill myself!”

“Are you _really_ sure?”

 _Of course I’m sure,_  he should tell him, only that words stayed stuck in his throat. No, he hadn’t consciously planned to end his life, but there had been moments when he’d thought that if he were to fall asleep and never awaken, then… then maybe…

 _No. No, no, no._ “I can’t die,” he rasped. “I’d be cast in Hell if I died now, s-suicide or not.”

“Look, you shouldn’t have done… this. I gave no penance. I told you I was working on it--”

“And you did nothing.” John’s voice broke, and his eyes stung. He shut them, refusing to let himself weep. Not before him, he wouldn’t, not again.

“... Look, I’m thinking, all right? If you give me more time--”

“I don’t blame you,” he choked out. “There’s nothing you can do. I’ve been like this since I was a boy-- my will is as weak as my flesh. I came to save this parish and instead I am a taint upon it.”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far. At worst, you’re annoying. But look-- just let me have a think and--”

John didn’t listen to his words, they didn’t matter. Nothing he said could help him now. He shook his head, burrowing his face into the pillow. “I’ll leave Santa Cecilia come morning.”

“You-- what?”

“I’m unfit for my purpose here, and--” _I can’t bear to be in your presence any longer_ “--I will write to my contacts in the States and send the photographs, so that the aid you need is sent here regardless. Then I will write to the archdiocese of Antequera once I leave, to be assigned somewhere else, and… and tell them you’re doing well here,” he added. He wasn’t sure if his letter of complaint about him had been received, as he never got a reply, but he felt that was the moment to make up for it. “They sent the right man. You have heart, experience will come--”

“Don’t!” Father Ernest almost yelled, causing him to recoil. He looked up, startled, to see that he looked… paler than usual. Even in the flickering, faint light of the candle, it was noticeable. He blinked up at him, and he cleared his throat. “Listen, you’re... not well enough to travel. In all, uh, conscience, I can’t let you leave.”

“I… I’m sure that in a couple of days…”

“Not until the doctor says you can,” Father Ernest spoke quickly and as much as he didn’t want to stay there, he… he could see the point. Slowly, John nodded, eyes downcast. He hadn’t expected Father Ernest to worry that much, but he tried not to dwell on it.

If he did… if he did, everything would be more complicated. “... I will listen to the doctor.”

A sigh of relief. “Good. Now get back to sleep.”

John hesitated. “You…”

“Someone’s got to stay through the night. Doctor’s orders. Not arguing with that guy.”

“One of the Sisters… or-- or Brother Hector...”

“I can’t sleep anyway,” Father Ernest replied, his voice oddly hollow. He sat back on the chair, and that was that. John leaned his head back on the pillow, shut his eyes, and did his best to ignore both the burning in his back and his presence.

One was easier to ignore than the other.

* * *

“Why the long face, kid?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Did the gringo die during the night?”

“Wha-- no!”

“Shame.”

“Cheech!”

As the old gravedigger snickered - a sound Juanita seemed to echo the sound, flapping his wings briefly - Miguel snorted and looked away. His fingers were still plucking the strings of the shiny new guitar Óscar and Felipe had made for him, but he didn’t really feel like playing, much less sing. It wasn’t as much fun without Héctor, anyway, and he was barely around those days.

Sitting back in his old chair, Chicharrón sighed.

“All right, all right. You don’t need to worry about him, muchacho. He’ll be fine.”

Of course he’d say that; he didn’t know that Miguel had _seen_ the state his back was in. Cheech himself probably hadn’t seen it, so he didn’t know just how bad it really was, and now Miguel sorta wished he had accepted the explanation he was given and left it at that.

But he had not. He wanted to see for himself and now he was left with a gruesome sight that wouldn’t leave his mind, and something even worse - the nagging thought that he didn’t really _know_ Ernesto all that well. He had saved him from drowning, he was fun, he could sing and play; he was willing to help him get Héctor and Imelda together and he was helping the town… but ultimately, Miguel knew nothing of him past the fact he’d escaped from the Federal army’s clutches. Or rather, he _said_ he had escaped. Maybe he was still one of them and _they_ sent him.

_It can’t be. If he were, he would have killed me when he knew that I had found him out._

That was all true, but now he couldn’t stop thinking of the look on Ernesto’s face. For a moment, his hand around his throat, Miguel had almost thought he could, and would, do it.

_You can’t trust Federales._

_It could get me_ killed, _Miguel. You must never say it aloud again, do you understand?_

_I’m… almost sure it wouldn’t. Héctor would never. He’d help you._

And he’d meant it. Héctor would never, Miguel thought again, strumming his guitar. He’d help.

And he knew how to keep a secret.

* * *

The gringo, Ernesto decided, was by far the _worst thing_ that had ever happened to him. Or maybe not, but he was comfortably in the top five at the very least and clearly determined to climb up the podium. He’d been a pain in the ass since he’d arrived, and the fact he planned to leave should have been amazing news.

Except that of course Padre Juan had to find a way to turn that into a nightmare, too. The prospect he could write to la arquidiócesis de Antequera after leaving, mentioning him, was pretty damn concerning. He didn’t mind some photos of his being sent to some contact he had in the States, who wouldn’t have the slightest clue who the parish priest of Santa Cecilia, a little to the left of nowhere, was supposed to be; but a letter talking about him to what was probably the very archdiocese that sent a different priest and would damn well know it? No señor, he couldn’t let it happen. His life was at stake.

_You know they’re going to get you in the end, don’t you?_

No, they would not, as long as he had a say in it. He had to find a way to convince Padre Juan to _stay,_ but of course that tight ass couldn’t bear to be in the same parish as the object of his desire. To think he may be risking his cover because some stupid gringo had the hots for _Gustavo_ of all people was maddening; the only way out, as far as Ernesto could tell, was leading Juan to see that he just wasn’t _worth_ the trouble; as for how… well, he had an idea.

“Sofía.”

“That’s my name,” she replied without missing a beat, talking over her bite of bread. Even though they had managed to buy food to last them some time, they had to be careful with rationing; it needed to last them until the gringo could get them aid. But at least it was some breakfast, and he ate it slowly, relieved that at least for now Padre Juan was in the hands of doctor Sanchéz. Sofía eyed him, raising an eyebrow.

“You look like you didn’t sleep a minute.”

“The chair was uncomfortable enough to keep me awake,” Ernesto muttered, not really wanting to think of _what_ had truly kept him up.  “Listen, you said Gustavo is… disappointing. In bed.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not a question I was expecting.”

“Humor me.”

“... Fine. There is only one way for anyone _not_ to be disappointed in bed with him.”

“Which is...?”

“Get into it expecting the biggest disappointment you can imagine. Then you’ll get exactly that. Why, are you considering giving him a go now that Lent is over with and I get to go back to Sister Antonia? I have to advise against it. Strongly.”

Ernesto scoffed. “Thanks but no, thanks,” he muttered, making a face. And changed subject. “Still, it’s kind of _cold,_ how you’re heading back to the fairer sex now that she’ll have you again.”

“Aw, are you going to miss me?”

_It helps to have someone in the same bed._

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he grumbled. Sofía laughed, and flicked his nose.

“She’s not _terribly_ jealous. Maybe every once in a while, for old times’ sake.”

“Old times,” Ernesto repeated, and had to laugh. God, he’d been there for little over a month, and it felt like years - and not bad ones, either. “I’ll keep in mind your gracious offer, Sister.”

“Subject to availability, of course,” she added. “So, what was the question for?”

Ernesto - who had _no clue_ if Gustavo would even be on board with it - shrugged. “Oh, nothing. I was just wondering,” he said. She didn’t look all that convinced, but thank God the next moment Héctor and doctor Sanchéz walked in and, as they discussed Padre Juan’s condition and treatment as well as his utter idiocy, she seemed to entirely forget the matter.

Or maybe he was too tired to notice the thoughtful looks she kept giving him.

“... Bed rest for at least another week, best if it’s ten days, and keep medicating the wounds,” doctor Sanchéz finished. “He seems eager to get out of town, and _good riddance,_ but as a doctor I can under no circumstances allow him to leave just yet.”

_And as someone who’d be utterly fucked, I can under no circumstances allow him to leave at all._

“Of course,” Ernesto said, and smiled. That meant he had a few days at least to convince him to stay; he always had a way with words, and now he also had an idea, so he was… sort of confident he could talk him out of leaving, at least for now. And if he could not, well, there were less pleasant but still effective measures he could take.

He still had a gun hidden in his room, after all.

* * *

“Hola! Feeling better?”

John was startled out of his bleak thoughts by Father Ernest’s loud, impossibly cheerful voice. He lifted his head from the pillow - doctor Sanchéz had threatened to tie him down if he didn’t keep resting on his stomach with his back uncovered - to look at the door, blinking.

“Father Ernest?” he muttered. His wide smile was such a contrast from the tiredness on his face when he’d left only a couple of hours earlier, he couldn’t even begin to feel embarrassed. “Are you, uh. Are you well?”

“Absolutely,” he exclaimed, still smiling - no, grinning. He sat on the chair by his bed and leaned forward, closer. Entirely _too_ close. “I have a solution!”

“A… a solution? ”

“To your _affliction,_ I mean.”

For a moment, John could only stare. Hope reared its head for a moment, only to be extinguished like a flickering match thrown in a river. It was… kind of him to make an attempt, but it was hopeless; John knew as much now. He’d tried everything - he’d prayed and fasted and punished himself. Father Joseph, the Lord rest his soul, had prayed for him as well and God hadn’t heeded him either.

“ _Perhaps it is in God’s plan that it remains your cross to bear,”_ his mentor had told him one day. John had refused to contemplate that, then. It horrified him to think he may never be free of those urges. He’d felt the flames of Hell at his heels and he’d turned his back to a holy man who had taken him in and tried to help him - a holy man who had only showed him kindness.

_“I have to find the solution on my own. And your mercy is only hindering me.”_

_“Son…”_

_“I am not your son. I am no one's until I am worthy of it.”_

It had been their last meeting, their last exchange aside from the occasional letter, and oh how he’d regretted his outburst when news had reached him of Father Joseph’s death. Even now, thinking of it, he almost teared up. _Almost,_ because he couldn’t allow himself to. Here he was, years later and still as unworthy, with a man who attempted to extend that same kindness.

“You are... a good soul. But I fear there is nothing that can be done, nothing I have not tried.”

“You never _gave in_ to it, did you?”

John swallowed, averting his eyes. Suddenly, his face burned as hot as his back did. “No, never. I swear. I could never--”

“Then it might be worth a try.”

“--even contemplate-- _what??_ ”

John’s voice left him as an incredulous screech, brain freezing. The part of it that was still sort of working screamed that he must have heard wrong, that Father Ernest couldn’t have possibly be suggesting… he couldn’t… _couldn’t._

“I-- I beg your pardon?” John choked out, and Father Ernest lifted his hands.

“I know, I know-- sounds insane, but hear me out. If you give it a go, and hate it, then it could just rid you of any desire going forward, no?”

“I-- I couldn’t--!”

“You tried everything else, what have you got to lose?”

“My soul, that’s what!” John cried out, cheeks on fire. Good God, how could he suggest-- to just imagine… no, no, no, he couldn’t even think of it. “I have-- I have already sinned in my heart. If I commit the sin of sodomy--”

"I’ll give you absolution.”

It was unheard of, absurd. John felt lightheaded, and shook his head. “It… it is… unorthodox.”

“Most of my methods are. But they do work. Think of it,” Father Ernest leaned forward again, causing John to shrink on the mattress. God, why was he so close-- why was he so handsome-- oh Jesus Christ why put him on this path, why him. “You’ve been sinning until now in thought, no? And nothing worked. So why not bite the bullet? If it takes care of it once and for all...”

“N-no,” John managed, and shook his head. He closed his eyes, tears of humiliation threatening to fall. “I could never damn another soul, and-- you don’t understand, I am the most unholy-- if it turns out I… I enjoy...” he fell silent, and dropped his forehead back onto the pillow.

_If it turns out I enjoy the act, I don’t know what I’ll do._

“Listen, I know who it is you want.”

Oh. Oh God. Oh _God,_ he _knew._ Humiliation hit him like a wave, and suddenly John knew the flames of Hell would be a relief in comparison. He shut his eyes tighter, choking out a sob against the pillow. “F-f-forgive me,” he manages. “That’s why I cannot stay, I-- I thought I would be safe in Mexico, I n-n-never thought I could possibly lust after-- after one of _your_ kind.”

He didn’t look up, so he didn’t notice the deeply unimpressed look Father Ernest gave him before he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and spoke again. “Well… anyway. Say that this man is available, and maybe willing to help--”

 _“What??”_ John looked up, eyes wide, mind reeling. What he’d just heard was so incomprehensible, it made him flush hot and cold at the same time. _Thoughts_ rushed to his mind, and he shut them down with a desperate shake of his head. No, it couldn’t be, he couldn’t let it happen; he could not allow a holy man to defile himself to help him. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Father Ernest spoke again, causing his brain to come to a grinding halt.

“I know from trustworthy sources that he’s absolutely the _worst_ in bed, so chances are you’ll never lust after him again.”

“... What?”

“Don’t ask me how I know, I won’t name names,” Father Ernest said, shrugging. “I’m just saying, it might be worth a try. Your unfortunate problem will be fixed, I’ll absolve you for the act, and you won’t need to leave.”

“But--”

“It would be a shame if this town lost an asset like you in this moment of need-- and over what? That toad?” he shrugged, entirely unaware of John’s wide-eyed gaze.

“What… what are you talking about?”

Another shrug. “Your awful taste, that’s what. I mean-- _Gustavo,_ seriously?”

John stared. John blinked. John opened his mouth and found he couldn’t force out a single word. John closed his mouth, blinked again, drew in a deep breath. And he _screeched._

_“What in the blazes are you going on about??"_

Father Ernest reared back as though struck, blinking himself, and his patient expression turned into confusion. “I’m saying, I heard that Gustavo-- you know, the sexton-- is… er…” he paused, and blinked. “... Wait. Is it not him?”

“Good _God,_ no!”

“Ah.” Father Ernest seemed to deflate, staring down at him as though he’d just revealed he had wings. He seemed so utterly confused.

 _Oh Lord, he_ is _an idiot._

“I-I-- I think this conversation should end here, for both of our--” John tried, stumbling over his own words, but Father Ernest didn’t seem to even hear him.

“So wait, who is it then?” he asked, frowning. “It’s not Héctor, it’s not Gustavo, and there is no one else I can think of you’ve spen... any time... around…” his voice faded, and something horrible showed on his feature - comprehension.

As his eyes widened, John found he could no longer stand the sight. He let out a groan, and burrowed his face into the pillow again, waiting for what was sure to follow, the disgust and anger and--

“... I mean, I don't know why I’m even surprised.”

“W-what…?” John stiffened, face still against the pillow, heart jumping in his throat. Why… why didn’t he sound furious? Why was he not running from him, or striking him, or cursing hi--

“I _am_ by far better looking than everyone else in this parish.”

Oh, God. “Please, leave me.”

“I should have known, actually. Who would even look at Héctor or Gustavo while I’m--”

 _“LEAVE!”_ The scream tore through John’s throat; even muffled against the pillow, it had the desired effect: after muttering something he did not catch, Father Ernest walked quickly out of the room and closed the door - leaving him alone with the sound of his fading steps, and never-ending, boiling _shame._

The prospect of Earth parting beneath him to plunge him into a fiery pit didn’t seem so bad, now.

* * *

“Héctor? Can we talk a moment?”

A look at the chamaco was enough for Héctor to tell that something was not right. Miguel had turned to him before if anything troubled him - even if sometimes his help ended up making things… just a bit worse - but he’d rarely looked quite _that_ troubled.

It was alarming enough for Héctor to put down his pen and turn to the door, concerned. Songs could wait. “Sure, chamaco. What is it?”

Miguel hesitated, then he walked into the sacristy and closed the door behind himself. “Well…”

“If Dante ate the candles again, we have a few extra ones. No one will notice--”

“No, it’s not that. I mean, he did eat the candles, but… it’s about… something else,” Miguel muttered, and looked down. He seemed to be trying to gather courage, which was… not something he needed to do with him, usually. “You must promise to tell no one…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra art by Elletoria!  
>   
>   
> (Also check out [Appa's art](https://appatary8523.tumblr.com/post/184787889147/ive-been-reading-pengychans-nuestra-iglesia) 'cause it's so good!)


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